


Where Loyalties Lie

by Weiila



Series: Dor'ash and Sarah [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-25 15:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weiila/pseuds/Weiila
Summary: In a cruel, violent world, you must choose companions carefully, lest you get a nasty surprise when you least want it. The orc shaman Dor'ash knows this well, and yet he made friends with the Forsaken mage Sarah. But who knows what an undead thinks?





	1. Past Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this plot is pretty much set off by things that happened in Wail, Baby, Wail, however keep in mind that that story is very different from the rest of the series since it has a lot of game mechanics that only should exist for player convenience (mainly hearthstone use). So take that one with a grain of salt but think of it as half-true since it was Sarah telling a pretty wild story to begin with. 
> 
> ... also this is heavily based on a quest that I assume is looooong gone. It involved an orc commander wanting revenge on a belf lady for seducing and fooling him into sending a bunch of orc soldiers to their death. Well I shipped Thrall/Jaina so I ain't raising my eyebrows at Blizzard shipping belf/orc.

What to make of Azshara? The trees and grass blazed in the warm colors of an eternal autumn. Locked in a fading state, yet somehow never reaching decay. In this land, the crumbling ruins of an ancient night elf civilization melted into the background as naturally as the cliffs they were built on.

Somber, and beautiful.

If only there had not been such pain in the land, and demons befouling it even now.

Dor'ash breathed deep of the crisp winds, smelling the faint salt of the ocean. The spirits of this place wept quietly – they suffered, but had suffered for so many years that they no longer had the strength to howl in rage against the demonic taint. Only closer to the ruins where demons still dwelled today did the spirits growl, but that too sounded faint and distant. They stayed away out of fear, here as everywhere else, when the foul creatures were near.

The visit to Valormok camp – and how they had even managed to find it, he still didn't know – had done nothing to make him feel better. The beaten whimpers of the spirits were disquieting enough, and seeing how few orcs were actually left of the expedition, that had been downright depressing.

Azshara may be a beautiful land to the naked eye, but he found himself missing the warm winds and dry smell of the Barrens. Well, a village in the Barrens, at least.

Inwardly, he sighed. His travelling days would eventually come to an end – not yet in quite a while if he could rule, but it had begun. He had somebody to return home to, and the undeniable tug at his heart only underlined it. Still, not yet. Neither Grema nor he himself would stand for him abandoning the Horde, not while he still could not deny the wish to serve the Warchief like this for a while longer. The spirits called him to battle, asking just a little more. Dor'ash knew that he was just a small part in a great puzzle, and he could not give up his place in it – not today, not in a month, but for certain in a couple of years.

If he survived, and he damn well planned to.

Squaring his jaw, he grimly gazed at the hills ahead. The landscape rose up ahead, but he knew that it would turn steeply downwards once one got closer to the sea. And that was another thing. There was not only the salty tang in the air, but also a scent of fish. Fish that crawled and carried weapons. Demons were not the only thing to worry about here.

He and his companion rode along at an easy pace, saving their mounts – well, his mount, hers felt no exhaust – in case they needed to flee for one or another reason.

This land had not been kind to the Horde, but, as for Valormok, the two travelers had come here to help set things right for them. Something might still be done to mend the situation.

"Hey! On our way to kill elves here. Think about your girlfriend some other time."

The hoarse voice ripped Dor'ash straight out of his reverie, and he turned an amused gaze towards his sneering companion.

"You were talking about Jonathan just the other day," Dor'ash said, managing a faint grin. He did not much like this solemn mood, and her joking accusation was welcome.

Sarah waved a thin hand towards him, joints creaking by the quick motion.

"Totally different," she said. "He's off my mind completely by now. Killing elves takes precedence over everything."

"We're just going to scout the area," Dor'ash reminded her.

"Oh, bull!"

She nearly fell off her horse from leaning precariously towards him, and he bent further away in return. Grey, his wolf mount, glanced around with a wolfy kind of "are you out of your minds?" look. Well, Grey should know the answer to that. He had been around for a while, after all.

"If you think that you can tell me that there are rebel belves that need killing, and then bring me close to them and still expect me not to murder them all, you're gravelly mistaken," Sarah snapped, then turned her face skywards with a disdainful snort.

He regarded her for a moment, absentmindedly amused at how she had at some point stopped saying "night elves" and "blood elves". Cutting those racial names down to their essentials was a recent trend spreading through the Horde, and Sarah had cheerfully latched on to it.

"You're a racist," he said, blankly.

"Pff!" Bone clattered loudly as she folded her arms and 'glared' at him. "It's not my fault that they're all pretty, arrogant asses that can't bear to jump into battle unless they know there's a shower and a hairdresser waiting on the other end of it. Incompetent too."

"Not everyone is Celandria, you know."

"Small mercies."

They both shook their heads of the memory of the last blood elf they had allied themselves with. Definitely the last. The experiences in the Wailing Caverns, which almost cost Dor'ash his life as well, had even made him regard tauren with suspicion for a while. It was something he could shake off after a while though. Not all of them were calves desperately needing some sense knocked into them. Unfortunate for Damian that the knock he finally got smashed the life out of him rather than added common sense.

Well… Dor'ash turned his face towards Sarah again, grinning around one tusk. She too glanced back at him, returning the expression by flashing her chipped teeth. Not everything had been a complete disaster with that adventure, despite the tragic end of it. It was where they first met, after all.

Still, since then he preferred to deal only carefully with the elves. Having Sarah constantly at his side made it easier, because her coarseness and lack of tact kept the, in her words, "dollies and pretty-boys" away.

Watching her trying to control her disdain was a show in itself, of course. Low opinion of the elves clashed with loyalty to Lady Sylvanas, and Sarah almost tied herself into a knot at times, when she could not duck away from whatever blood elves she and Dor'ash had to deal with occasionally.

Back in Orgrimmar, when he told her about why they were going to Azshara, she almost climbed up his arm in glee. That… had been unsettling.

"Anyway," she said, calling him out of his thoughts again. "We have some very important business to take care of. If I catch you with your mind elsewhere, I'm going to hurt you very much."

"But not kill me?" Dor'ash asked, amused.

"I didn't say that."

She smirked at him.

"All I'm saying is that if you know what's good, you'll be in heat in between and not during important events," she said.

He just looked at her, until she dissolved into cackles and slumped over the neck of her horse.

"First of all, females go into heat, and secondly, orcs don't do it at all," Dor'ash said, loudly to make sure she heard him.

"Hoo!"

Sarah let her arms dangle freely, still chortling. Any monsters that might have planned an attack would probably have been stunned in pure bewilderment at the sight and weird discussion.

After a while her laughter melted away, and she heaved herself up on one arm planted on the horse's neck. The skeletal creature didn't react at all.

"Speaking of, though," she said, quirking the scrap of an eyebrow, "when that Ag'tor said that this Rimtori bitch seduced Belgrom, did he mean _seduce_ seduce or just that she buttered him up?"

Dor'ash pressed a fingertip to the bridge of his nose.

"I don't want to know," he grunted. That poor old fool.

"Because that's disturbing even in my view." Sarah cheerfully waved her hands about, her gestures not quite decent at all times. "No offense to you, handsome, but that's like a humming bird and a-"

" _Sarah_!"

"Oh my, I had no idea you were such a prude."

Silence settled for a moment. After a little while Sarah coquettishly raised one shoulder, tilting her head towards it.

"Bulldog," she sweetly said.

It was with the smallest margin possible that she managed to duck his fist.

Their banter faded and seriousness returned as they moved on across the fields and patches of trees struggling with eternally fading leaves in the poor soil. There wasn't much earth for the plants to draw nutriments from. Spruces had the easiest time, but even their needles were tinted a brown red.

Ahead of them, to the east, the landscape rose upwards in what looked like rolling hills. However, from the descriptions they had received in the meager orcish camp, they knew that the soft rise of the land was deceptive. The other side of those hills would be steep cliffs, and below that were the areas where the naga ruled.

Until now Dor'ash and Sarah had more or less followed the old main road, but kept a distance to it and all ruins along the way to be careful. There were few friendly travelers in this hostile land. According to Ag'tor, when one spotted the rising hills it was a good time to turn north.

Tugging gently at Grey's reins, Dor'ash made the wolf turn northwards.

' _No… you must see…'_

As soon as he heard the whisper, he automatically pulled the reins and Grey stopped with a surprised yelp. Sarah too held in her horse, watching him silently as he listened.

The wind merely rattled the leaves and needles of the trees and bushes, and a few birds chirped. Dor'ash looked to the west, experimentally.

' _No…'_

Weak as they were, and their voices feeble, the spirits still held a bidding tone and he was not one to turn them down. If they wished him to see something, then so be it. Sarah didn't comment as he turned Grey towards the east again. She merely nodded and followed.

The spirits remained silent, but Dor'ash scanned the area with eyes and ears as he and Sarah rode to and up the hills. The world plunged in front of them as they reached the top, just as Ag'tor had described. Dismounting, they crept towards the edge of the hill and crouched, gazing upon the land below.

Marble temples and towers rose over the jumbled, rocky ground, still impressive despite that millennia had passed since they were built. By now they almost had the same color as the rocks, however, beaten by nature as they had been for years and years. Beyond the age-old rooftops, one could see the ocean stretching to where it met with the sky. Only moss and a few tiny bushes clung to life amongst the rocks, adding some bits of warm, brown color here and there.

However, there was also an awful lot of blue down there, with some yellow. Hundreds of naga, slithering amongst the ruins and rocks in whatever tasks they performed.

And those were only the ones visible from this vantage point.

Dor'ash grimaced at the sight. The old night elf queen's followers still claimed this place as theirs, even when they were all warped beyond recognition of their old selves. The Legion had done this, too. All of it.

The spirits remained silent, so he waited – for further instructions or whatever it was they wanted him to see. At his side Sarah remained just as silent as the spirits. By the looks of her, one might think she could remain hunched down, keeping watch, forever. Dor'ash shifted, leaning on his hands to avoid letting his muscles stiffen. He didn't have her kind of body.

Behind them, Grey laid down with a crunch of dry grass. Sarah's horse didn't move at all from the spot where she had dismounted. It may as well have been a statue.

They waited, seconds and minutes slipping by. Still Dor'ash stubbornly searched the ruins, his sharp gaze running tirelessly over the crumbling walls and the rocks that surrounded them.

At one point he thought he saw a speck of red from the corner of his eye and quickly looked that way, but then it was gone. Although unsure if he had imagined it or not, he kept staring at that point. Nothing else showed itself, however.

Suddenly fur brushed against grass and Grey stood up with a snort and a patter of paws. Dor'ash and Sarah both spun around.

A dark-furred tauren moved up the hill, dressed in leather armor and one hand raised in a sign of peace. Just behind him lumbered a bear, its fur a rich, grayish brown. Exchanging glances, Sarah and Dor'ash shuffled a bit further away from the edge of the cliff before standing up, to make sure they weren't seen from below.

As the tauren got closer, it got easier to see the bow slung over his back, and he also carried a relatively small hand axe at his belt. If the bear had not been enough of a clue, this definitely proved that he was a hunter. One of his horns had been broken off, and no unnecessary trinkets dangled in his thick mane.

"Hail Thrall," he said as he got closer, speaking a greeting as much as his allegiance.

"May the spirits smile upon this meeting," Dor'ash replied.

He half expected Sarah to lash out with what seemed to be all Forsaken's favorite welcoming phrase, "what do you ask of death?" but she thankfully held her peace and left it at a not too pleasant smile.

"We haven't seen many other travelers since coming to these lands," he quickly said, before she could reconsider.

"I only climbed up here to see the ancient city," the tauren said, the salty wind toying with his fur and mane. "Even without the naga, I probably couldn't get Fuzzik here down there. He refuses to go into cities."

Dor'ash raised an eyebrow. The tauren absentmindedly patted the bear's neck, and the animal shook his huge body, snorting.

What kind of a name for a pet bear was that?

The thought was probably apparent on his face, if Sarah's smirk had not spoken well enough. The tauren grinned sheepishly and shrugged his huge shoulders. Then he nodded, grin disappearing.

"Pardon me," he said and thumped his chest lightly. "My name is Deran Mountainhoof."

Dor'ash glanced at Sarah, who tilted her head in dismissal. Possibly a weirdo, but nothing else. Well, he might have some information to share about the situation here.

"I am Dor'ash Coldbane of the Frostwolf clan," the shaman said, then motioned at Sarah. "My friend's name is Sarah Nebula."

"Ah." A sigh escaped Deran, causing his wide nostrils to flare. "That is unfortunate."

The weakened spirits surged, murmuring worriedly in warning. Dor'ash tensed in reply, although he didn't understand.

"What is?" he cautiously asked.

Fuzzik, too, seemed to notice something of the sudden tension, claws scraping the ground as he looked up at his companion.

"I have been searching for the undead who killed my brother in the Wailing Caverns," Deran said.

With that, he rushed Sarah.

The change between calm declaration and sudden action went so quickly that Dor'ash failed to react in time, and when he did it was already too late. Although Sarah managed to duck the sweep of Deran's axe, his body slammed into her and they both went flying.

Unfortunately, he probably had not realized how close to the edge of the cliff she had been standing, and his attack made her recoil further just before the impact. The two of them flew past the short expanse of stable ground, out into thin air. Realizing this, Sarah's furious shriek changed tone.

Dor'ash stared, stunned for a precious second, as a blast of fire sent Deran's axe out of his grip. The tauren cried out, but he still fisted Sarah's robe in his other hand and they plummeted towards the rocky landscape far below together.

A soft glow suddenly flared up around Sarah, the fall slowing somewhat – she'd still had a light feather, the tiny reagent allowing her to cast a spell that dampened gravity's pull. However, with about four hundred pounds of tauren clutching her, there was only so much the magic could do.

Even worse, several naga had turned their blue faces upwards at the sound of all the shouting. Already they started forwards, slithering across the rocks with ease.

Swearing, Dor'ash rushed down the slope, Grey and Fuzzik dashing beside him. Sarah's horse didn't seem to care one way or another, but he didn't take the time to look around to see whether or not it would help. In a distance he heard the hard thump as Sarah and Deran hit the ground, and he leaped down the side of the cliff, landing on a rocky, natural shelf and continuing downwards. It was a hazardous trip and one which the two animals could not follow him in. They could run quicker down the slope though, and join him as soon as possible. Getting to Sarah before it was too late was the only thing on Dor'ash's mind.

He reached the ground, and immediately a naga male burst out from behind a rock, trident in hand. Dor'ash called upon the elements in a snarl, sending the snake-like creature tumbling backwards with an icy blast of magic. The beast fell over, tail trashing desperately as he struggled to break the ice covering his protruding face.

Rushing onwards Dor'ash ripped his war hammer and shield from his back.

"Sarah!"

Far, too far ahead he could see the dark shape that was Deran. He didn't move, nor did Sarah reply to the shout. Dor'ash dearly hoped it was only because she was stuck beneath that pile of muscles and stupidity. About sixty yards separated him from the crash site, and the closest approaching naga only had half that distance to go.

Leaping across a cluster of stones, he came face to face with a second naga male. A female stood a few feet behind him, all of her hands glowing a dangerous blue. Dor'ash caught the stab of the male's trident against his shield, using his momentum to wrestle the weapon aside and get within reach. His war hammer arched through the air and crashed deep into the fish man's head, sending gore flying. A slimy mass splattered over Dor'ash's arm and chest but he didn't stop, only wasted the moment it took to rip his hammer free. But the female naga had almost finished her spell, face twisted into a mask of fury. He dashed, had to stop her-

Grey flew past him, mouth open in a murderous snarl. His huge, furry body smashed into the sea witch, and her spell shattered to the sound of her howl of pain and rage. Dor'ash didn't stop to see Grey finish her off.

Fifty yards to go.

He heard heavy breathing and thumping scrapes of huge, clawed paws on rocky ground. Fuzzik was just behind him. Dor'ash didn't have time to wonder whether or not the bear would be able to offer much help, he could only hope it would.

Deran still didn't move. Knocked out cold, and then, what about Sarah? Logic desperately tried to stay afloat in Dor'ash's mind – she was undead. She couldn't be unconscious-

But she could be crushed. She was dead, not immortal.

Forty yards.

There was no path, only short strips of ground easier to traverse past the jagged rocks. Dor'ash growled select curses, leaping and throwing himself over the sadistic landscape. The sharp stones cut gashes even in his thick skin as he nearly fell, catching himself against a jutting rock. He hardly took note of it, struggling on while Fuzzik came up beside him. Froth dribbled around the bear's teeth.

Thirty yards, and the first naga had almost reached the unmoving heap on that was Deran. Five of them so far, but others were coming, drawn by the sound of battle.

The ground turned to ice in front of Dor'ash, just as he put his foot down. He slipped, arms cart-wheeling as much as their burdens allowed in the search for balance. His hammer caught against a rock and he vaulted up straight, nearly slipped again but stepped forwards – only to find that he was stuck. Ice encased the hammer and the hand holding it, creeping all the way past his wrist.

He looked around wildly, catching a glimpse of a grinning sea witch, but Fuzzik had already changed direction. The naga female recoiled with a shriek, but the bear was quicker and his mighty paw sent her flying, the side of her chest caved in. So far, Deran's pet proved to be a whole lot smarter than the tauren himself.

It gave Dor'ash enough time to tear himself free, sending shards of ice flying from his stinging hand. However, by then the naga ahead had already reached their goal. Two of them poked Deran with their tridents, while the others turned to face the approaching orc.

"Sa-Sarah!" Dor'ash snarled. Despite the winds coming from the ocean, sweat threatened to run into his eyes from his brow.

He heard a reassuring, strangely high-pitched gasping just behind, and more paws against rock. Grey was back, and by the sound of it Fuzzik was on his way as well.

Ten yards, but the naga were ready.

A wave of fire exploded from below Deran, searing his fur and the ground all around. Hissing in pain and surprise, the naga tumbled away from the flare.

Sarah was alive.

Grin overtaking his strained features, Dor'ash flung himself forwards while clumsily clawing at the pocket where he kept totems for easy access. Luckily he had trained to grab a totem and throw it even while holding his war hammer, although it was more difficult than usual in this stressed situation.

Grey bounded past, using the naga's confusion to attack one of the three in front. However they were all recovering quickly, and the closest of the other two almost immediately flung his trident towards the huge wolf. Although he saw it coming Grey managed to roll aside only barely, wrestling with his opponent's lashing tail. One of the pikes of the trident caught his back and he howled, twisting in agony and clawing at the struggling naga's belly with already bloody claws.

With a roar Dor'ash sent the totem flying, and the naga recoiled in alarm as it stuck in the ground. Instead of blasting fireballs at the snake men, however, a healing aura rose up around the wooden item as the magic activated. It flowed towards Deran and Grey. In the second of uncertainty, Dor'ash and Fuzzik reached the naga.

The bear aimed for the one who had wounded Grey, and it met him with claws spread and vicious lines of fangs bared. Dor'ash raised his shield to yet again block a trident, focusing on the third enemy. The naga hissed at him, exhaling a stench similar to rotting fish.

That did nothing to a nose used to decay.

From the corner of his eye he saw Deran stir, roused by the healing totem.

"Get off me, you damn ox!" came a muffled voice from beneath the tauren, just loud enough to be heard through the hissing and growling.

With renewed strength Dor'ash called upon the elements again, channeling a second blast of ice through his hand although it stung – his fingers felt stiff from being caught in ice themselves, but he had to ignore it. His spell hit the naga in front of him square in the chest, and it tumbled back with an inhuman shriek. Using the loss of balance Dor'ash tackled it, and stomped down hard on its throat when it hit the ground. Something crunched and he leaped aside to avoid the violently writhing tail.

Two new naga were already coming at him, having split in a direction each to surround him. And more were coming, many more, speeding across the rocks from the ruined temples and whatever hollows the cliffs offered.

"Sarah-!" Dor'ash snarled, gasping for breath. The totem on the ground sent tendrils of healing magic towards him, but its power was almost drained and he hardly felt any difference. "Sarah, portal!"

He didn't hear if she replied, dashing towards the closest naga. Couldn't allow them to get at him from two directions-

This one had quicker reflexes however, recoiling from his sweeping war hammer. The weapon nearly slipped out of Dor'ash's numbing, bloodied grip and he staggered, just barely able to block the trident. But the other naga got within reach in that moment, and its trident stabbed into a thin line of exposed skin just above Dor'ash's gauntlet. He roared in pain, war hammer sliding dangerously, but he wrenched himself free by the power of rage and adrenaline. Using all his strength he slammed the side of his shield into the surprised naga's face. It was a desperate move, leaving his back exposed to the second one and he stumbled around even as its friend thrashed backwards.

Fuzzik fell over it just as it was about to stab, closing his jaws over the naga's arm and biting down. Blood spurted and the naga screamed, its arm crunching into an unnatural angle. Dor'ash stumbled back, swinging his war hammer into the fallen naga's head. A sickening smash, another splatter of gore. In the background, Fuzzik noisily finished off his prey as well.

Staggering around, Dor'ash saw Sarah roll out from under Deran, who was heaving himself up while shaking his head in disorientation. Sarah, on the other hand, clawed at her waist bag with determination, drawing out a rune. Even as she struggled up on her knees she was muttering under her breath, and the magical stone glowed in reply.

Still more naga were approaching, and Dor'ash could not tell if the spell would be done in time to save them. Gasping for breath, his entire body throbbing and arm burning from the stab, he lurched closer to Sarah, determined to get between her and the incoming enemy. The portal she tried to open was their only chance of survival.

Then Grey, growling and limping, padded up between the warriors and the naga, and Fuzzik lumbered to his side a second later. The two animals matched each other, paws splattered with blood. Patches of their fur gathered in slimy, red lumps of hair and foam dripped from their mouths.

They could make it. Dor'ash straightened up and leant his war hammer against his leg. Ignoring the pain in his hand and arm he tore open one of the bags from his belt and grabbed all the totems within. There weren't many, but it might do. Letting his shield drop he took them all in his good hand and sent them flying. They stuck in the ground several feet away, clumsily placed but activated by his prayer to the elements.

The naga recognized the danger and recoiled, trying to get out of reach. But the closest ones had no chance and fled backwards, screaming, as fireballs launched towards them.

Deran had finally gotten to his feet. He growled, clawing for the bow on his back. Despite that he apparently had enough sense to put his personal little crusade aside for the moment, the tauren gained no sympathy from Dor'ash. The shaman had to suppress a very dire wish to kick Deran in the shin. No, not now. If they survived, he could and definitely would do it later.

Small rocks sailed through the air, thrown by the furious naga. One totem fell.

They only had seconds before the brittle line of magic defense would collapse completely.

As if hearing this thought, a shimmering hole flared up in thin air, and on the other side one could see the orange cliffs and the troll-styled houses of Orgrimmar's Valley of Spirits.

"Go! Go!" Sarah shouted, struggling to get to her feet.

Fuzzik spun around at the shout, and Grey too turned his head.

"Hey wha-" Deran started, but in the next moment he was gone through the portal with Fuzzik tumbling after him.

Perhaps the pet – rightfully – felt worried that his master might be left behind. Grey bounded after them, his tail brushing against Dor'ash's arm as he passed. Quickly the orc grabbed his shield and war hammer, taking the former under his good arm.

"Come!" Dor'ash snarled, reaching for Sarah. The naga were almost upon them, the totems destroyed.

She took his hand, sharp fingertips digging into his thick, messy skin. Holding her as tightly as his battered fingers allowed, Dor'ash stepped towards and through the portal. He felt her stumble behind him, but she weighed so little that he just pulled her along. A blast of Durotar's warm sunlight and a smell of sand and fresh water greeted him, washing a wave of relief through his exhausted body.

Then he felt a tug.

Sarah's fingertips dug in deeper, but his hand was so slick with gore that no friction remained. Even as he spun around in alarm, staggering on the planks in Orgrimmar, Sarah's hand slipped out of his.

Through the closing portal he saw her tumble backwards, scratching wildly at the huge, blue hand that enclosed her thin waist and the other hand which clapped over her mouth, muting any spell.

The gateway disappeared, and he saw only the orange cliffs rising towards the cerulean sky.


	2. Deceit

For a couple of shocked seconds Dor'ash stared at the empty space where the portal had been. In the background, Deran slumped onto the floor, pressing a hand to his head.

Hissing out a curse Dor'ash spun around, fixing his eyes onto a faraway spot and focusing. He could not make a portal back there, but there was something he could do, however useless it really was.

He cast his gaze onto the cliffs surrounding Orgrimmar, and his world leaped forwards onto that point, hovering above Grommash Hold. Next horizon, over the cliffs, the distant tree tops and cliffs north of the capital… onwards. He dangled above the trees, gazing down at a sea of leaves and rock-

The vision lurched, cleared, but he faded, his body was so far away he could hardly feel it. Just a distant pinprick, slipping out of his grasp and this floating _world the sky and the treetops would swallow him-_

Panic rushed his ragged mind and he vaulted backwards, jolting so hard he almost fell over as his wide open eyes blinked. Staggering backwards he leaned against Grey, forgetting that the wolf was wounded. At the whimper and recoil, Dor'ash moved his hand away and tried to straighten up.

Spirits, he was no far seer. A shaman with years of experience well honed by battles and journeys, yes, but one could only go so far. If he'd ever had more time to sit down and study more, perhaps, yet he never did. Not enough. He was a warrior at heart.

But, by the ancestors, _Sarah_. He had to see what had happened to her, had to. Logic said that she was already left for dead, but he had to know. Naga weren't stupid, they might know that a Forsaken could still be saved unless her remains were completely destroyed.

Instincts urged him on, the bad feeling returning with reinforcements. There was something else…

Closing his eyes he struggled to focus, but his mind spun with exhaust, worry, fury. With a groan he rubbed his face. Grey pawed at his friend's leg, looking uncertain. Finally the wolf sunk down, resting his tired head on his paws.

"Oy, mon. You doin' alright?"

Dor'ash looked up as the troll mage hunched down beside him, watching him with concern. A little ways to the side, beside the slumping Deran, Fuzzik stood and watched Dor'ash as attentively as the troll. Somewhere deep down, the orc registered that the bear's eyes held an odd amount of empathy for a beast. Not enough to get his full attention, though.

"My friend…" Dor'ash managed to grit out to the troll, waving at the empty space where the portal had been.

"Still back dere?" The mage turned his head, frowning at the open air above the planks.

"Yes, I'm trying to see what's going on, but-"

Grunting, Dor'ash rubbed his forehead. The thought of standing up made him feel sick. Surrendering to the reality of the situation, he let his hand and shoulders drop.

"She's probably smashed to bits by now."

"Aw, mon…" the troll murmured. It was not quite gentle, the way the big blue hand patted Dor'ash's shoulder, neither was the tone all that soft. But there was an understanding in it.

Had he known that 'she' was a Forsaken, the troll may not have been quite so sympathetic. Dor'ash chose not to disclose that piece of information.

The troll backed away, leaving him to his thoughts. After a few moments Dor'ash drew in a deep breath and climbed to his feet. Grey struggled to stand, until the shaman managed to pull himself together well enough to call on the healing powers of the spirits. The wounds closed, and the wolf's breathing evened out as he stood up.

Deran said nothing as the orc left, and Dor'ash only spared a nod towards Fuzzik. The bear might not comprehend the gratitude, but he had fought well.

For the first few steps the surroundings spun before his eyes, but he squared his jaw and made it down the stair. A cold determination filled his chest as he set his sights towards the rooftops seen through the opening in the cliff ahead.

If she was just broken up and thrown over the jagged landscape, he might be able to salvage Sarah. For that hope to live, though, he would need more allies to beat the crap out of the naga.

He quickened his pace, then ran as soon as he felt sure that the dizziness would not send him crashing to the ground. Grey bounded up beside him, keeping an easy pace. This wasn't the mad dash through the hard landscape of Azshara, but the stress only felt a little bit lighter.

When crossing the rope bridge leading to the flight tower, Dor'ash had to slow down not to risk falling, but as soon as he reached the other side he ducked down the spiraling path. People were going in both directions, getting in the way and he could have roared in frustration. The road outside was no less packed.

Both Dor'ash and Grey got some curious looks. People splattered with blood weren't that unusual, however, not in Orgrimmar.

Dor'ash paused for a moment, closing his eyes.

_Help me find somebody who can aid us._

It took a moment, and he wasn't sure if the spirits would offer any help. Then he felt a slight tug inside his mind, and set off through the crowd. Crossing the road with some difficulty, he glanced around only to make sure Grey was still able to follow.

Inns and taverns lined this side of the street. People of all Horde races, wearing everything from simple clothing to armor, created an overload of colors and impressions as they lounged in the shade and enjoyed cool drinks.

She'd said that she had spoken with-

Dor'ash's furiously searching gaze caught an undead man sitting by one of the tables outside a tavern, dressed in a pale blue mage's robe. Unlike Sarah, he still had a nose and his eyes shone with the familiar yellow glow of the Forsaken. His ears, on the other hand, were two stumps surrounded by greenish gray wisps of hair. He sipped a drink from a mug, speaking with two other undead whom Dor'ash hardly took note of.

"Jonathan!" he snarled.

One does not see a rattled Forsaken very often – so the fact that Jonathan Schiller jumped on his seat said a lot about Dor'ash's tone.

"By Sylvanas, mate!" the mage said, looking around sharply. "Are you trying to- shouldn't you be in Azshara?"

He took in Dor'ash's bloodied armor, the just as messy wolf behind him, and most importantly to the Forsaken, the distinct lack of company. Jonathan might not be psychic, but he could combine hints into facts. His chair fell over as he shot to his feet.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"In Azshara!"

The other Forsaken at the table, and many of the other patrons of the bar as well as people on the street were watching the events unfold with varying degrees of interest. Neither Dor'ash nor Jonathan noticed this as the mage stomped closer and craned his neck to look at the orc.

"What happened?" he asked.

Pressing a hand to his pounding head – and smearing more blood into his hair in the process – Dor'ash quickly explained about the portal and how a naga got hold of Sarah before she could make it through. By the end of it, Jonathan was shaking his head, groaning.

"Great, a scavenger hunt among the fishies," he said. Looking at Dor'ash, a bony hand reached out and patted the back of a bigger, empty chair. "Sit down, you look like you're about to drop dead yourself."

The mere idea of pausing made Dor'ash bare his fangs in another snarl, even though his legs were starting to raise loud protests against the rough treatment they had received in the last hour. Not even an orc could keep up a pace like this for so long. But he couldn't stop, not when-

"They've probably already killed her and thrown her all over the place," Jonathan grimly said with a Forsaken's cold, hard logic. "We can't whip up a rescue team and make it there in time, you know we can't."

Yes, he did. He just didn't want to admit it.

"What if they burn her remains?" Dor'ash grit out as he sunk onto the chair. He had to fight back a wince, his legs felt as if they were on fire. The hand that had been hit by an ice spell throbbed, and he tiredly massaged it. Grey flopped down in the shadow at his side, panting.

Not that Jonathan had much left as far as lips went, but he pursed what he had.

"Then we make fish soup," he said. "Slow boil to make it tender."

"Heh…" It wasn't a laugh, not even close. Dor'ash sighed and shook his head.

It was the painful truth, though. Already it was certainly too late, had been too late from moments after the portal closed. Naga seldom take prisoners, and very few people of any race would even consider trying to interrogate a Forsaken. One can't torture something that does not feel pain as the living do.

But she was his friend, he couldn't just sit there when she needed to be found, if not avenged!

One of Jonathan's drinking buddies said something in Gutterspeak, and a brief conversation followed. Dor'ash didn't understand, but he suspected it was all Jonathan explaining the weird alliance between his "ladyfriend" and this orc shaman.

Dor'ash was about to stand up, unable to just sit idle even to rest when he needed to get back and find whatever was left of Sarah. He was just tensing his protesting muscles when the spiritual cry rung though his worn mind. Grey looked up with a sharp whimper.

' _Deceit approaches the wretched girl!'_

The spirits were far stronger and louder here, where life pulsated and shamans called upon them everyday. There was a reason the warlocks had to practice their arts beneath the ground in Orgrimmar.

A hiss escaped Dor'ash's throat, but he waved Jonathan aside when the mage looked around.

Something was horribly, horribly wrong. He glared upwards, past the heads of the people on the street, towards the sky. Again he cast his gaze onwards, hand absentmindedly digging into Grey's fur for support. The lupine mount was not a spiritual creature, but he was a wolf and wolves are by tradition holy to orcs.

He vaguely heard Jonathan's voice, falling silent quickly, and the murmur and stomping of Orgrimmar around his body, but Dor'ash himself hovered above the town, turning towards the northeast.

Although still exhausted and ragged, he'd had some little time to at least catch his breath. Desperate need to find out the truth drove him on once again, but he was in control this time and the frenzy could not shatter his focus. His sight leaped, passing leagues of land and sky, grasping the winds to guide him, drawing support from the elements.

Brown grass and autumn trees spread out beneath him, he could even see the road towards the ocean. Just a little further, the rising hills and the steep cliffs, the ruins-

And he saw the naga far below him, and the small, twisting body they surrounded. Sarah lay on the ground, her arms and legs tied, and ice coating her face to stop her from chanting a spell. Several naga of both sexes kept a close eye on her.

But that was not all that was there.

The naga were blue, the cliffs grey, Sarah wore a brown robe. But there were more colors, golden and red, as worn by the group of blood elves standing by. One of them, a woman with long black hair, holding a mage's staff in her hand, was speaking with a female naga.

As Dor'ash watched, the two women nodded and one of the male fish creatures hauled Sarah up by her shoulders. She twisted even more wildly to no avail, clattering against the hard rocks as the naga tossed her over to the elves.

Although looking disgusted, when the black-haired leader waved her hand, two of her followers grabbed Sarah's arms and lifted her up for inspection.

Unconcerned with the smell and rotten flesh, the magus Rimtori, she who had seduced Belgrom and murdered a dozen orcs, grabbed Sarah's chin and held the Forsaken's head still.

Sarah tore herself free and her face twisted towards the sky, covered eyes turning straight towards Dor'ash's watching spirit.

She couldn't scream out her rage.

Dor'ash's mind spun back, and he heard himself swearing before he even became fully aware of his real surroundings again.

"What-" Jonathan had time to start, but Dor'ash stumbled to his feet and grabbed the mage's arm.

Still cursing, the orc staggered forwards up the street with Jonathan in loudly questioning tow. He hardly even noticed all the people giving him odd looks. Grey slunk behind them, easily making his way through the crowd but growling his confusion.

It took several long seconds before Dor'ash regained his balance and composure, but then he wasted no time snarling an explanation. In the next moment they were both running, making way past the other people on the road as quickly as they could.

"You go get some of your friends, I'll get mine," Jonathan said, speaking through clenched teeth.

"Very well, I'll see you at the base of the tower in one hour at most," Dor'ash snarled back.

Jonathan nodded and flashed out of sight. Jaw set in stone, Dor'ash headed for the Valley of Strength together with Grey.

As he materialized again Jonathan nearly stumbled because of the sloping path, but he fisted his robe to keep it away from his feet as he hurried on downwards. The sunlight was at his back, but he dove further on into a dank, purplish light. Shadows danced over the rounded walls and the air probably grew thick, but he did not notice such things. Merchants and strange figures in dark robes looked up from their discussions with lazy curiosity at the disturbance. Normally, people did not run in the Cleft of Shadow, for the people frequenting it had pretty strong ideas about dignity.

Jonathan would have ignored them, but he had to at least look around for the person he sought.

Doing this would risk his position on Sarah's Winter Veil gift list, but just rounding up a group of allies for an assault in hostile territory on short notice was not that easy – unless you went to the right people. This should be interesting enough for that particular basta-

Ahead of him a succubus stepped out of a tent, turned around and stroked aside the canvas acting as a door. An undead man walked through the opening, talking to somebody still inside over his shoulder. Jonathan slowed, but made it the last few steps in a brisk stride.

"Pardon me, master Nebula," he said in Gutterspeak, pressing his palms against each other as he came to a halt.

The warlock twisted his head around and glared at Jonathan.

"And you are?" he demanded.

"Who's there?" the rumbling voice of a male orc asked from inside the tent. The warlock held up a hand as a signal to wait, never taking the glow of his eyes off the intruder.

"Jonathan Schiller," Jonathan said, bowing briefly. "You may not remember me. I am a friend of your sister Sarah."

"Is that so?"

Patrick Nebula straightened up and looked over his shoulder at the occupant of the tent.

"Nothing to worry about, master Fireblade," he said in Orcish. "Merely a message from a family member."

A disinterested grunt was the only reply from inside. The succubus let the canvas go, but a stronger, purple light shone through around the borders of the cloth. She remained silent, watching the two undead men with a bored expression on her beautiful face.

"Now then, what is the meaning of this?" Patrick asked, returning to Gutterspeak – but with a little more interest than annoyance.

_Oh, she's going to_ kill _me,_ Jonathan thought.

"I'm afraid that your sister is in a spot of trouble up in Azshara, master Nebula," he said. He quickly explained what he knew of the events in the autumnal landscape, then continued: "Her pet orc is pulling together some people to help crush the blood elves. Would you be so inclined to lend your assistance?"

Patrick, who had listened with increasingly twitching lips, bowed his head and pressed a decaying finger against his mouth.

"Oh my," he finally said, "little Sarah has fallen off a rock and broken her arm again."

He looked up, still chortling softly and throatily.

"Very amusing, I must say. I assume you wish for me to gather a few more people to help us with these elves?"

"Any help will be most welcome, of course," Jonathan said, nodding gratefully at the 'us'. "The orc wanted me to head to the tower within an hour to meet him and anybody he may have conscripted."

Patrick slowly nodded. The shadowy inhabitants of the Cleft went about their business around the two men, at least pretending not to try listening in. In the background, Patrick's succubus leaned against a rock, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Very well, I believe I can call upon a few willing warriors," Patrick said. "I cannot stand by and leave my sister in the hands of the elves she so hates, now can I?"

"I'm most grateful, master Nebula. I'm certain she will be as well."

Even as he spoke, Jonathan stepped backwards to leave, pressing his palms against each other again.

"She better be," Patrick said with a smile unpleasant even for a Forsaken. "And, Schiller…"

"Yes, Sir?" Jonathan stopped moving.

Patrick waved a finger at him.

"I have, shall we say, reasons to keep a low profile. You will call me Patrick Hartwell, as it might become troublesome if that orc of my sister's learns of any connections I may have."

"I understand completely, master Hartwell," Jonathan said.

"Very good. I will see you at the tower then."

Jonathan bowed, backed a few more steps and then turned around to hurry off. Every sixth mage's sense in his body told him that this might not have been a very good idea at all. It was, however, an issue he could not afford to worry about.

* * *

"It's not that I'm ungrateful," Dor'ash said in a low voice, "but how did you manage this?"

He stood in the shadow of the flight tower, gazing down at the sloping road with disbelief. Behind him, four more orcs, two trolls and one tauren mirrored his expression, some of them with a greater sense of unease mixed in. Dor'ash addressed Jonathan, who looked around.

Behind the mage came a troop of fifteen Forsaken, some carrying swords, some wearing robes in various colors and varying states of tatter.

"Eh, I called on a higher force," Jonathan said in an easy tone, turning his head towards a tall Forsaken man in a warlock's robe. That one bowed his head in greeting as he came to a halt.

"Patrick Hartwell," he introduced himself. Like all Forsaken he had a voice which grated on the ears, but it sounded as if he tried to keep it somewhat smooth. "The elf Rimtori has created quite a little outrage amongst our kind as well as yours, master Coldbane. I was actually already arranging this troop bound for Azshara, when Schiller showed up."

Dor'ash studied the man for a moment. Something about this didn't sit right with him. The spirits muttered, but they almost always did when there were Forsaken about. Sometimes he had to ask Sarah to take a few steps backwards when he needed to listen to the whispers.

"I never heard about that when I got my orders to go there," he said.

Patrick raised a hand, nodding understanding.

"Of course," he said. "We knew of the affairs with Belgrom, however Rimtori's meddling is a little embarrassing to the Society, and therefore I did not want to tangle our problems with yours. Yet, now that she has taken one of our own prisoner on top of everything, I see no reason to keep our outrage separate."

Forsaken under the direct command of the Royal Apothecaries. Wonderful. Dor'ash felt even less thrilled than before. But, they were manpower he could not afford to turn down.

He felt a sudden stitch of sympathy for the Warchief. Thrall had faced that kind of decision on a much larger scale.

"Very well," Dor'ash said, not letting any misgiving show as he drew himself up and gave the Forsaken troops a stern look. Glowing, unblinking eyes looked back, although some had their faces partly covered in a manner similar to Sarah. "I very much appreciate your aid in this, but I want to make it clear that I am the leader of this expedition."

Patrick bowed again.

"Of course, master Coldbane," he said. "I, and my men, will comply with that."

_But will you respect it?_ Dor'ash dryly thought.

He pushed the bad feelings aside, trying to hold on to the fact that he would trust Sarah with his life, and Jonathan had never proven to be anything than a decent man. To have absolute faith in the Forsaken was generally believed to be somewhere between unwise and suicidal, of course. However, much as he knew that, and personally detested warlocks, he would have to take the risk.

Turning around and barking at everyone to follow, he led his own friends and the Forsaken up the tower. He could tell that the former watched him with some concern about this twist, but they would have to deal as much as he did. They had to eradicate Rimtori and her elves, and get Sarah back.

No telling what that pink witch in a red dress planned, especially if she went so far as to buy a captive undead from the naga.

Whatever it was, it had to be stopped. And if Sarah was dead, he would take his time to break every bone in Rimtori's body. Although he would have to leave something for Jonathan, too.

Such thoughts were unsuitable for a shaman, but Dor'ash allowed himself a little bit of it.

Doras, flight master of Orgrimmar, looked a little taken aback as he realized the size of the troop. However, while waiting for Jonathan, Dor'ash had already cleared everything out with the wyvern master. By now this whole escapade counted as a war effort, and Belgrom had readily agreed to pay for the flights of whoever wanted to help crush the treacherous blood elves.

Dor'ash had been forced to drop Grey off at the stables. The troop would fly to Azshara, and while the wyverns big enough to carry tauren could technically also carry large pets and even wolf mounts, it wasn't something that the animals agreed to willingly.

There just wasn't enough space for everyone to take off at the same time, so pairs and threes of wyverns soared off the tower and towards the northeast. Circling, the growing group in the air waited until everyone was airborne, whereupon on Dor'ash's command everyone turned the winged lions towards Azshara.


	3. Retribution

"What in the name of the spirits is going on?" Ag'tor Bloodfist asked, dark eyes watching in disbelief as wyvern after wyvern landed in his small encampment.

In the background the flight master of the camp just gaped, shaking his head. There weren't roosters enough for these many wyverns. Most of them had to simply curl up on the ground once they had landed. Although the winged creatures could speak, they seldom did so normally – but now there was a low, growling choir of complaints at this rude treatment.

The other orcs in the camp (all four of them) had also come closer to watch this spectacle, gazing at the gathering troop in wonderment.

"I evaluated the situation with the blood elf Rimtori," Dor'ash said, half turning and waving at the still incoming men and women. "This is the result."

Ag'tor lifted a hand, pointing finger stretched. It wagged about as he counted the soldiers, lips moving silently.

Finally, he grinned in a most nasty way.

"I like it," he said.

He probably didn't even notice that Sarah wasn't there, although she had visited the camp together with Dor'ash just half a day before.

As soon as everyone had landed, the various soldiers gathered in a half circle around Dor'ash. They weren't trained to work together, at least not all of them – he couldn't speak for those Jonathan had called to action. It would do, however. Not one of them moved without confidence, and he knew he could trust his own allies. The Forsaken looked no less ready to fight.

Jonathan shuffled up to stand just a couple of steps to Dor'ash's side. They exchanged a look, and the pale grey lips of the mage grimly stretched. This battle was personal.

Giving a small nod, Dor'ash then turned to everyone else to explain how far away the elves were, and that they would walk rather than risk the wyverns getting shot down with magic. Looking at the flying lions, they might not be up for playing along anymore, either.

He was almost finished when a shout from above made him and everyone else look up. Nobody but Dor'ash recognized the call well enough to growl in exasperation, though.

Two more wyverns swept across the sky, both of them of the very large kind. The ones that could carry the weight of a full grown tauren. Deran was back. And he wasn't very kind to his partner, by the looks of it.

Dor'ash caught Fuzzik's eye as the bear stared down, over the edge of his wyvern's wing. If ever an animal had looked traumatized by fear, that was it. The wyvern didn't look thrilled either, but somehow it managed to land, clumsily running a few steps on the ground before collapsing. The flight master ran over to the two of them, muttering disbelieving curses. Unconcerned with that, Deran dismounted his own wyvern and stomped over, past the soldiers who curiously moved aside. He drew himself up in front of Dor'ash, who glared daggers.

"If the murderess Nebula is still alive, I have a duty to my brother to see her dead," Deran coldly said.

Far behind him, Fuzzik tumbled off the panting wyvern as the flight master finally managed to untie the two beasts from each other. The bear lay still, gasping loudly with his huge maw hanging open and claws digging into the grass and earth.

Deran just stood there, square teeth bared.

For a very weak second Dor'ash considered turning to Jonathan and tell him ' _It's his fault Sarah was captured by blood elves. I'm going to look the other way for five seconds.'_

But, well, murder is murder. No matter what instrument you use for the killing blow. As a shaman of the Frostwolf clan, Dor'ash had better morals than that.

Regrettably.

"You almost got all five of us killed back there," he said in a dangerously low voice. "Now my friend is the prisoner of a band of renegade blood elves, because of your poor choices."

Deran coldly glared back and folded his tree-trunk arms.

"Are you saying that I am wrong in seeking to avenge my brother's death?" he asked.

Gritting his teeth, Dor'ash had to admit that he understood that anger. Was he not about to do the same thing, in essence? However…

"I don't condemn your philosophy," Dor'ash said. "But here's the thing. No matter what you may have heard, I was there in the Wailing Caverns when it happened, and Sarah didn't kill your brother. Damian brought it upon himself, and she had nothing to do with it."

The next few seconds were the stupidest moment of Dor'ash's entire life - that's saying something considering all the things he had gone through in his travels with Sarah, and still had ahead of him.

Deran blinked.

"Damian?" he blankly said. "My brother's name was Duncan."

Dor'ash stopped breathing.

A snicker was heard in the background, from somebody standing at a safe distance. Jonathan cast one glance up at the shaman's face and took several steps backwards. The trolls and other orcs were already recoiling, urged by raw survival instincts.

"Oh." Deran rubbed his neck with a sheepish expression. "I suppose the person I heard it from got it wrong. I'm terribly so-"

Dor'ash backhanded him across the face so hard that he was thrown off his hooves and crashed on the ground. The impact was so great that everyone in the audience felt it in their feet.

"Go get yourself killed," Dor'ash hissed through his fangs. He had to force himself to just stand there; one motion and he would have gone over and choked the _blazing fool_. "I hope your bear fares better, because he's obviously the only one of you two who has an ounce of working brain!"

Some of the Forsaken slowly clapped their hands, a rattling sound. Dor'ash was about to snarl at them. Deran pushed himself up on one hand, groaning, and started to say something.

Then Fuzzik stomped forwards – still a little shaky on his paws – and whacked Deran over the head so hard that the tauren fell back and didn't get up again. Knocked unconscious.

The camp fell silent.

What the bear had just done was a really amusing, mute way of expressing the message, ' _you idiot!_ '. However, nobody laughed – because it was certainly not something that any normal bear would do.

Realizing his mistake, Fuzzik recoiled from Deran. Then he carefully peered up at Dor'ash, whose eyes had turned to slits.

Now that he looked closer, Dor'ash noticed that the bear's ears were a little longer than they should be. He also recalled the odd amount of understanding he had seen in those dark eyes in the Valley of Spirits.

"I hope that you are a tauren, druid," the orc said.

But a tauren would have no reason to look so frightened at being caught.

"Oh boy!" a hoarse voice in the background said. "Plum jelly dessert!"

A choir of sharp, unpleasant chuckling answered this statement, but the Forsaken weren't the only ones regarding this twist with sadistic interest. Even the other tauren had no kind eye for a night elf spy, especially one who followed one of her own kind around in disguise.

Fuzzik's claws nervously scraped the ground, but fully aware that he was surrounded he made no attempt to escape. Only stared up at Dor'ash.

It was a brief, inner struggle, and Dor'ash wasn't sure if he did the right thing. As the leader, he had to keep the others' faith in him intact. But…

He thought about the naga, and Hyjal, and that peculiar human paladin, now emissary of Theramore, Thomas Southstone. Alliance and Horde didn't always count, there were situations where those terms even were filthy.

These thoughts passed quickly, and Dor'ash shook his head with a snarl.

"The elf protected me as I tried to save Sarah earlier," he said, loud and clear. "I owe him that much, so leave him be."

"Ah, but _we_ have no reason to be grateful to him," one of the Forsaken warriors said.

Surprisingly, Patrick Hartwell raised a hand in a halting sign. The agreeing murmurs from the other undead instantly ceased.

"You heard master Coldbane," Patrick said. "The night elf helped one trying to save our little Sarah. That's not something you see every day."

Dor'ash gave the undead man a sharp look. A warlock showing mercy?

The look Patrick gave Fuzzik, however, was one that rather said something along the lines of ' _What an interesting bug. I will have to dissect it in my lab_ ' than anything else. The druid turned his big, rounded head away very quickly.

"And she will be furious when she hears about that, mark my words," Jonathan cheerfully added.

Some knowing, hoarse chuckles were heard, but nobody took their eyes off the bear.

Dor'ash turned and looked at Ag'tor. After a moment of glaring, the warrior shrugged with a mighty clang of crimson armor. He obviously didn't like it, but could respect a debt repaid as well as any other honorable orc. The people under his command would let the night elf go without a fuss.

Stepping aside, Dor'ash waved impatiently at Fuzzik.

"Leave before I change my mind," the orc snapped in Common, to make sure the druid understood.

The huge, furry head sunk low, so far that Fuzzik's nose almost touched his paws in a silent sign of gratitude. Then he loped forwards, rushing past Dor'ash and the orcs and trolls who moved back to let him pass. The heavy stomps crunched against the ground, until a flash of light covered the druid and he shrunk. A cheetah replaced the bear and continued across the open landscape at far greater speed, its golden fur, beneath the black spots, matching the grass.

Dor'ash turned around and ordered the troop to get going. To his relief they all obeyed without question, though one or two shrugged or lightly shook their head in disbelief.

It would take much longer to get there since they did not have mounts. Knowing how far it was, Dor'ash grit his teeth. He tried not to think about what those elves possibly could want to do with a Forsaken prisoner, and all the time they'd already had to do it. Might they just mean to harvest the magic in Sarah's body, or use her for some arcane experiment?

He wrestled those thoughts aside. She was alive last he saw her, and she was a true survivor. That hope, he would hang on to until the end.

After a little more than an hour's march he ordered a halt for a brief rest. The Forsaken had no problem, but Dor'ash and the others would if they walked all the way to the coast and then leaped into battle without pause.

There was another reason to stop, too. One of the trolls was a shaman, and on the request he sat down and narrowed his eyes at the rolling hills ahead of them. Dor'ash would have used his own far sight again, at this distance it would not have been as much a strain as in Orgrimmar. However, he knew he needed to keep his head cool, and he didn't know what to expect from the elf camp. It was difficult enough not letting the worry for Sarah boil over, if he saw her in a bad condition it may throw him off balance.

The rest of the group sat in the grass or leaned against trees, watching the troll as moments passed in silence. Finally he spoke, mouth the only part of him that moved.

"Dere be a group of dem standing by a small ruin, up on a hill stretching out towards da sea. Pretty dangerous for little elfies. Hm." The troll's lips moved, rolling against his own tusks. "Dey be lookin' mighty agitated 'bout somethin'-"

"Aha!"

The hoarse shout snapped just about everyone around, and the troll shaman straightened up, blinking with an annoyed grunt.

A few steps away one of the Forsaken stood, hands raised towards the sky as if reaching for something. The pose caused the wide, dark blue – almost black – robes to slide down the raw bones of his arms. His fingers bent, one foot moving behind the other and he crouched as if putting all his meager weight into pulling something down.

Dor'ash cast his gaze upwards and saw what looked like a cluster of black threads. The Forsaken warlock let out a hiss and made a tearing motion with his entire body. Whatever that thing up there was, it followed his motion as if he had held it, tumbling down to hover between his skeletal hands.

"Caught a live one," he said with a triumphant grin.

He turned around, and as he spread his hands a little further the black threads moved apart just a bit. Enough to see that within the cluster of twisting lines was a floating eyeball, wrapped in a green glow. It threw itself back and forth inside its tiny prison, perfectly expressing rage.

The sight of this warlock using a completely new kind of spell to capture a spying eye was a (somewhat worrisome) marvel in itself, but it couldn't keep attention away from the truth. The warlock, too, shook his head and the grin turned to a grimace.

"They know we're coming," he said. Unnecessary, really, as everyone had already realized it.

The warlock held the dark yarn prison towards a nearby Forsaken in black armor. The other undead drew a dagger from seemingly nowhere, and stabbed it right through the threads, at the eyeball. Leaving no trace except for a green flash, the Eye of Kilrogg disappeared and so did the binding magic.

Dor'ash decided that this was not the time to ask about that trapping spell. Instead he turned and nodded at the troll, who sunk back down on the ground and fastened his gaze onto the hills again.

"Now dey're all shouting at each other," he said after a few moments, with some smugness in his voice. "Looks like da girl with black hair is da loudest."

"Must be Rimtori," Dor'ash said, pursing his mouth. If the elves fled, they really had nowhere to go unless they really had the aid of the naga, or made a break for the mountains. But Hyjal did not really invite to climbing, and other than that there was only the ocean. Still, it would take some time to catch them. At least, they would be insane to use mage portals to flee to any major cities. They had to know that they were wanted dead or alive.

The troll remained silent for a few seconds.

"Dey be calling others," he finally said. "Rimtori's goin' up to da temple. Either dey plan somethin' or dey prepare ta defend demselves." He paused. "I ain't seein' any trace of da dead girl."

Dor'ash considered for a moment. His heart sank at Sarah being nowhere in sight, but she might be anywhere. He had to keep hoping.

"We move forwards and spy again in a little while," he decided, "we still have some ways to go. If they plan a violent spell, we are out of range, but we shouldn't stand still and wait in case they plan on running."

The troll shook himself back to his body and climbed to his feet, then they all continued onwards as per Dor'ash's order. No more magical, spying eyes got within sight, but everyone cast their gazes around all the time in the search for them.

After a while they paused to let the troll take another look at the situation, and he reported that the elves were converging by the temple. By his report, it sounded as if they planned on trying to defend themselves rather than fleeing.

That suited everyone just fine.

No need to sneak, since the elves knew of the approaching enemies. Still, as they marched on and the abandoned tents got within sight, everyone's senses were on high alert – especially the magic users, watching out for any sign of a massive magic attack or anything of the like. But apart from the chill wind, there was nothing.

* * *

The elves had not moved from the hill, still standing by the temple. They had arranged themselves in a few rows, weapons drawn. Silently, they watched the approaching troop, like a wall of red clothes.

Their numbers were not great – somewhere between twenty and thirty of them. So, in that matter the two opposing sides were fairly evenly matched. However, Forsaken don't go down easily, and everyone else was a whole lot bigger than each one of the elves.

At Dor'ash's signal, the Horde troop stopped by the foot of the hill, and the orc continued a few more steps forwards with only Jonathan at his side.

Dor'ash fastened his shield on his arm, but instead of reaching for his weapon he dug his free hand into a bag at his belt. From there he drew out several totems, which he quickly threw down a few steps ahead. As they stuck in the ground, a blue glow immediately snaked up around them. No violent spell would reach him or Jonathan.

"Magus Rimtori!" Dor'ash roared, drawing his war hammer. "Show yourself, traitor!"

Jonathan and the others shouted approval. Some of the elves tried to sneer, but most of them stared down the slope with jaws set tight and weapons held in stiff hands.

Then the lines of elves parted, and a female blood elf, dressed in a beautiful golden and red robe, stepped past her allies. Before, Dor'ash had only seen her from above, and not gotten as close a look as this.

Like all her kind she looked more brittle than attractive in Dor'ash's eyes. Yet, the air of power surrounding her very motion, and her long black hair did lend a clue to how she had managed to charm Belgrom. She stopped in front of her troops.

"What is this?" she called, smirking defiantly. "Did the mighty Horde finally decide to send more than just one or two rats at the time?"

"I needn't speak of your crimes," Dor'ash replied. "Surrender yourselves to the judgment of the Warchief, and you may at least live for a few more days."

"Pah." Even at this distance he could clearly see her long, dark eyebrows quirking. "And you, orc, who are you?"

"You try my patience, little elf!" Dor'ash snarled.

Behind him, his friends and all the Forsaken let hear a nasty growl. Jonathan grinned as he scanned the line of elves, and more than one of them quickly looked away when they happened to meet his gaze.

"Oh, but I only ask, you see…"

Rimtori reached into a pocket in her robe, withdrawing what looked like a small glass ball, which she let rest in her palm. Her smirk widened as she continued.

"… because if your name is Dor'ash, there is somebody here who cursed you to the Nether and back for leaving her behind."

The lines of elves parted again just beside Rimtori.

Dor'ash's hand clenched around his war hammer so hard that his skin turned pale green. A strange sound escaped Jonathan, and he sharply straightened up.

Sarah staggered past the elves, drawing herself up beside Rimtori. The leather straps normally obscuring her missing nose and eyes had been removed, and hollow eye sockets stared down at the orc and Forsaken mage. Yet even though she appeared 'alive', there were more things screamingly wrong with her than just that she peacefully stood in front of a bunch of elves.

Her bony arms dangled, mouth mindlessly hanging open.

There was no need for an explanation. Dor'ash could tell by pure, painful instinct just by looking at her, even from this distance.

That body didn't house a soul anymore. It was only a shell, a marionette.

Judging by the hissed curses, Jonathan saw it too.

The other Forsaken uneasily muttered, the two sides of the conflict frozen in this moment of triumph for Rimtori.

Dor'ash eyes were set on her, yet he didn't move. Couldn't move, or he would descend in the blind rage she wanted of him, the rage he forced to keep under control. She wouldn't do this if it wasn't a trap, trying to bring all of them, especially the leader, off balance.

That was what his sense of logic said.

The rest of him wanted to tear off Rimtori's arms and feel the slow break of her ribcage under his fingers while she begged for mercy in ragged gasps.

And she smiled, dared to smile, wiggling her fingers above the ball she held. Sarah's body staggered down the slope, an alarming, red glow flaring up around her limp hands.

Dor'ash growled, deep in his throat. It was a challenge, and one he had to accept for Sarah's sake. Couldn't let her body remain like this.

"You still have a heart," Jonathan said, voice harsh but tone even. He too understood this. "Shall I?"

Squaring his jaw, Dor'ash shook his head at this sudden show of empathy.

"It's my fault," he growled. "I should take responsibility for her."

"Hm." Jonathan gazed at Sarah's body with an unreadable expression. "As you wish."

Rimtori wriggled her fingers again. Sarah disappeared with a twinkling sound, only to reappear many steps closer to the base of the hill. Her arms rose, the magical glow intensifying as she prepared to cast the spell. The totems would ground her magic, but that was not the point. This was only a show of power from Rimtori's side, a way to torture her enemies.

Dor'ash threw his war hammer.

A strange choice, certainly, but he simply couldn't bear asking the elements to destroy his Sarah. The heavy weapon crashed into her chest with a sharp crunch of breaking bones. The red glow instantly died.

She fell backwards, shoved by the momentum, and tumbled to the ground with the hammer's head embedded in her chest. Not a sound ever left her lips, and she didn't move again.

A dead _item_.

The enraged shout of support from his troops left Dor'ash cold, but he turned back towards Rimtori with his eyes burning with hatred.

She stood, arms raised, insane, wide grin on her face. The ball rested between both her hands, held towards the sky, and tiny, black bolts of lightning crackled around the elf's arms. The same mad grin reflected on her follower's faces – that crazy look of people hanging on to just the slightest possibility that they may yet turn the tide-

Dor'ash's rage drowned in an icy shower of realization.

"You Forsaken! Back! _Back_!" he roared, spinning around. Some of them were already recoiling, but he just knew that it was too late.

Jonathan howled and his staff clattered over the ground.

Whirling back towards him, Dor'ash stared for a precious second as the shadowy form of a man writhed out of Jonathan's chest. It clawed desperately at the trashing body it was being sucked right out of, but its long, slender fingers went right through. A fine face, twisted in horror and pain, mouth open in a silent scream. Those weren't the features that – literally – stood out the most, however. Part of Dor'ash's mind had just enough wit left to be dumbfounded at the truth suddenly revealed before his eyes, but he had no time to think about something so pointless.

The Forsaken behind him were screaming. War cries and heavy footfalls let him know that the breathing part of his troop made a desperate dash towards the elves, but without the undead they were dangerously outnumbered. Snarling, he rushed forwards too while calling on the elements. If they could just stop Rimtori-

A few steps away from the magus' feet, the ground suddenly buckled. The motion was so small that Dor'ash didn't notice it at first, but he and everyone else sure saw it when a root shot up through the decaying grass. It moved with a life of its own, whipping at Rimtori like a furious snake. A shriek escaped her and she staggered aside, the transparent ball falling from her hands as her shattering spell died. One of the other elves cried out, his hands glowing red – but just before the fireball set it aflame, the root clumsily slapped at the dropped orb and sent it tumbling within reach for Dor'ash.

He scooped up the ball and dropped it in a pocket without taking the time to consider whether or not that was a good idea. Risking a glance around Dor'ash saw Jonathan fall over, while the other warriors and magic users dashed past on either side of him. Gurgling noises escaped him as the shadow of himself sunk back into his body. Almost as if it mimicked him, the burning root slumped down and stopped moving.

In the very brief pause, Dor'ash's furious gaze met Rimtori's fearful, defiant one. She turned and fled towards the ruins, and her followers closed up to protect her flight.

Dor'ash tore his gory war hammer from Sarah's remains without thinking. Yet his roar drowned in the hoarse shrieking of the Forsaken. Thin, hooded shadows rushed the hill, past the breathing members of the Horde with astonishing speed. They threw themselves at the elves – slashing with weapons, clawing at eyes with their bare hands, all the while screaming like banshees. They had not tasted true fear for a long time, and they did not appreciate the experience.

The elves buckled under the onslaught, but they may have been able to handle the maddened Forsaken. However, orcs, trolls and tauren were just behind the undead, weapons ready. Two blue, ghastly shapes also dove into the fight, ripping away with ethereal claws while murmuring calmly all the while. It seemed that Patrick and whatever other warlock was in on this had managed to keep their heads cool enough not to call on any bigger demons to join in the battle. There just weren't enough space, although the Forsaken's outrage certainly called for bigger, spikier hands. Other small demons joined too, imps, void walkers and at least one succubus, called by the desperate elves who had the chance to stand in the back and summon their pets.

Dor'ash took note of that only briefly, then focused completely on his own adversaries. His hammer fell on an elf's head, smashing the pretty face in an explosion of gore. Another elf from the side, sun flaring over her falling sword and Dor'ash shifted his shield to meet it – and a huge, hairy creature slammed into the woman, crushing bones under its giant paws. She died a gruesome but quick death.

Fuzzik looked around, bloody froth swimming around his yellow teeth. Well. That explained the violent, helpful root.

"You again."

Nothing else made it out of Dor'ash's mouth, because he could not come up with anything else. Instead he turned around and raised his hammer in search for the next unlucky elf. They were almost all gone now, but desperately fighting to the last man and woman. Knowing there was nowhere to run, only the ocean and sharp rocks far, far below.

In a just world, he would have been the one to kill Rimtori. Yet Azeroth seldom played fair, and it didn't today either. Just as he sent one of the last elves to the ground, scream fading as the handsome man clutched for the icicle piercing his chest, Dor'ash glanced up and saw somebody else finish it all. One of the undead swordsmen rushed forwards while Rimtori put all her focus into a desperate volley of fireballs, trying to keep one of the trolls and the tauren away from her. She never had a chance, and when she saw the Forsaken he had already ran his sword right through her.

She fell, screaming, and it was over.

Some of the elves still remained at that point, but what did it matter then? They died within the minute, and (although such a plane didn't really exist within his faith) Dor'ash grimly hoped that they followed Rimtori straight to hell.

All over.

He stood in the shadow of the temple, covered in blood. It struck him, suddenly, that some of the gore on his hammer was from Sarah's body. The weapon slid out of his numb fingers and thumped against the ground.

Spirits. Ancestors.

Jonathan sat on the ground, staff leaning against his shoulder. Still as a statue, face expressionless. But his yellow, unblinking eyes were definitely set on that miserable, crushed heap on the ground, further down the hill than any other bodies.

Did the undead truly feel love, even a shadow of it?

Looking at Jonathan now, it seemed possible.

Two of the Forsaken went around with daggers in their hands, checking on all the elf bodies and stabbing each one in the throat for good measure. One or two squeaked out one last gasp before finally dying like that.

"Wounded, gather down there," Dor'ash heard himself say, and saw his hand wave towards the bottom of the hill.

People got up, some supporting themselves on others, and made their way down to the designated spot. Forsaken and living alike. There were casualties, but Dor'ash's tired gaze saw only four unmoving forms apart from Sarah – three of them Forsaken, the last, one of the trolls. The latter groaned when one his kin prodded him, however. Thanks to the undead throwing themselves headfirst at the elves with such rage, the amount of survivors was a welcome surprise.

Grim silence enclosed everything, save from growls and groans from the wounded. A sort of after-battle shock, this quiet air. Relief at being alive and patched up would come later, yet the things that had happened here were disturbing to say the least.

A big, dark shape moved in the corner of Dor'ash's vision and he looked around.

Silently he watched as Fuzzik padded towards him, and most everyone standing nearby looked on as well. The fake bear no longer tried to hide the intelligence in his eyes, walking slowly with thick slobs of saliva still glistening around his mouth and blood staining his fur.

"'ey, the dessert is back," one of the Forsaken said, but even he sounded drained. Only a scattered few chuckles were heard in agreement, too.

Despite his lethargy, Dor'ash raised his eyebrows when the bear stopped a few steps away, and a magical light covered the huge body. The glowing shape stood up on its hinds, shrinking and thinning. A moment later the light faded, and a male night elf dressed in leather armor stood before Dor'ash. The blood now covered his arms up to his elbows, splattered onto his gear and his face – both freshly bright red and old, dark splotches. The thick, red-tinted saliva glistening around his lips didn't make him a more pleasant sight.

"Beg your pardon," he said, and to Dor'ash's detached surprise he actually spoke Orcish, with a thick Darnassian accent that made the rough language of orcs sound pretty bizarre.

Holding up a hand, the druid wiped his mouth on his upper arm. It was definitely the most awkward motion Dor'ash had ever seen an elf perform, but he could understand it considering how gory the druid's hands were.

Finishing that, the elf looked at his hands for a brief moment but then seemed to shrug to himself, as if surrendering that cleaning himself would take too long in this situation. Instead he turned back towards Dor'ash, who seriously had begun to wonder if this man was an outcast amongst his own kind. His actions until now certainly did not seem very elfish at all.

"I was most touched by your mercy, shaman," the peculiar druid said, bowing from the waist with his slimy palms pressed against each other. "May I offer mine in return?"

Dor'ash regarded him for a moment, deep down knowing that he should be laughing at something so bizarre. But he felt no inclination to even smile.

"You made that root attack Rimtori, didn't you," he said.

"Yes," the elf said with a nod. He straightened up. "I have no love for the undead, but your companion was slain because of my friend's mistakes."

"Hm."

Dully, Dor'ash wondered what Sarah would say if she knew that a night elf had helped avenge her death.

"Why are you following a tauren around like that?" he asked, more because he knew that he should investigate this, than really caring.

"Deran and I met a couple of years ago while fighting corrupted furbolgs," came the reply, calmly with no trace of offense. "He never realized that I was not a real bear, and I accompanied him out of curiosity. It has been that way since. I never intended any harm, or to spy. As he said when you met, I have refused to enter your cities."

The mere idea that a tauren would make a mistake like that should have been laughable, but Dor'ash fostered no high thoughts about that particular calf. It would not surprise him if it was true.

Shrugging, he looked down towards the makeshift healer camp at the foot of the hill.

"Nobody harm the elf, you hear me?" he shouted.

Although he noted more than one disappointed expression, the overall reaction was a silent or murmured acceptance. They had all seen the bear fight.

"Can you heal?" Dor'ash asked, returning his focus to the once again bowing elf.

"I have been a bear for very long, but those skills are not lost to me."

Saying so, 'Fuzzik' started towards the gathering wounded, absentmindedly rubbing his hands against his worn pants to get rid of most of the blood. Dor'ash watched him go for a moment, but then went to sit down on a rock. His head throbbed, he needed to think but didn't want to. Needed to make plans for securing the area, assemble the least wounded as guards in case there were more elves nearby, send out scouts to make sure the troop could stay here for a while and recover. But he figured, it could wait for two minutes. If the sound of battle had not called forth an army of other malevolent creatures hiding in the bushes, there had not been any close enough to hear it.

Yet, making those plans would have been more pleasant than the images invading his brain now that nothing distracted him – of Sarah's crouching, _dead_ shape swaying, moving like a puppet with Rimtori pulling the strings. Damn that elf woman to the level of hell where Mannoroth's spirit writhed.

Before, he had never really been able to think of Sarah as actually dead. But there had been no soul in that body, every instinct and sense in him had just known it. That blasted elf had ripped it right out, like she had almost done with Jonathan.

So far gone into these dark thoughts had he sunk, that he did not feel the intensifying stench of death until a sharp fingertip tapped his shoulder plate. He looked around to see Patrick.

"Master Coldbane, may I see that orb you picked up?" the undead man asked.

"Hm? Oh, that one."

Dor'ash shook his head to clear his thoughts as he reached into a pocket and drew out the glass ball. He did not look too closely at it, but as he dropped the orb into the warlock's hand he noticed a small, pink glimmer inside of it. Patrick cradled the small ball in both hands, turned it over and finally held it up against the bright blue sky.

After a moment he chortled and muttered something in Gutterspeak. Then he turned towards Dor'ash again, offering the orb.

"I believe I found your friend," the warlock said, the rotting corners of his lips allowing him to smile unpleasantly wide.

Blinking, Dor'ash took the strange item back and held it up in front of his eyes. There was definitely a pink stain in the center of it… no, not a stain. He squinted, and as he did the small blur seemed to grow bigger, becoming clearer by the second.

Still small, and faint, but definitely a human woman. She looked straight out at him, and waved. Dor'ash frowned, but at the same time hope flared up in his heart.

"Sarah?"

She nodded.

Even in life, Sarah had not been a pretty girl. Could not have been even by those human standards Dor'ash only had a vague idea about. Hollow eyed, wiry and with hunching shoulders, she looked every bit a woman who only had known dreary, hard work for all her short life and only would have had as much to look forwards to.

Still watching him, she placed her hands around her mouth and seemed to shout at the top of her lungs. No sound made it out, though.

"I can't hear you," Dor'ash said, shaking his head.

She let her hands drop and shrugged. Difficult to say if that was a helpless or annoyed motion. Dor'ash turned his head and looked at Patrick.

"Is there anything you people can do about this?" the shaman asked, pointing at the orb.

"I would certainly like to attempt it." Patrick rubbed his chin. "That was a nasty spell she used, I would prefer if we knew how it worked so that we could counteract it in case anybody else invents or know of it." He looked towards the ruins on top of the slope. "It was not the spells warlocks use to create soul gems. I have never seen anything quite like it. But of course, the important thing for the moment is to get Miss Nebula back into her body."

He glanced at Sarah's body on the ground, then waved his hand dismissively at Dor'ash.

"Worry not, master Coldbane, we brought a couple of experienced priests along. They should be able to piece her back together." He held out his hand. "In the meantime, may I study the orb some more?"

"Of course." Dor'ash handed the ball back to Patrick.

He did not see Sarah's soul pointing at the warlock, wildly shaking her head. She ceased the moment Patrick's glowing gaze turned to her, and waved instead.

Dor'ash stood up from the rock and headed towards the camp. As leader of the expedition he could no longer ignore his duties. Hope gave him more energy.

He didn't hear Patrick's murmur, as the man gazed at the orb in his hands.

"Fascinating."

Inside of it, the miniature Sarah folded her arms and grimaced.

"Yes, yes," Patrick muttered in Gutterspeak. "I'll save you." Then he chuckled when she tilted her head in a skeptic motion. "What? Don't you trust me?" He tapped one fingertip against the ball, and Sarah put her hands over her ears. "You behave now, little sister. You understand, don't you?"

Sarah twisted her head in another direction.

"Good…" Patrick murmured and turned around to find his accomplices.


	4. Deception

Dor'ash knelt in the cool, brown grass a little ways away from the camp the troop had set up for the wounded. Two of the other orcs stood a few steps to the side of him, a man and a woman he knew from years back. She had her arm in a sling, but overall they were doing well. Out of the other orcs, one was unconscious and one had gotten such a nasty magic burn on his leg that he couldn't walk for the moment.

Ideally, Dor'ash would have waited to give those two men time to recover and be able to attend this simple ceremony, but it was something nobody felt at ease with letting wait. Best get it done as soon as possible, as it should be.

The skulls of the murdered orcs laid before Dor'ash, no longer heaped around a book stand but carefully lined up in rows. An uncanny sight, but this was something he had to do.

"Your deaths have been avenged, my brothers and sisters," the shaman softly said, holding out his hands with his palms up. "You may rest at ease. I swear that your remains shall be brought away from this foul land, and given worthy burials in Durotar. Your kinfolk will no longer live in uncertainty of your spirits' fate."

He could feel them, like the brush of a feather. Their voices had been stronger when he carried the skulls away from the ruins, gently cradling them in his hands, a few at the time. Even then he could not make out any words, not as when the elements spoke to him. Yet, the orcs' souls sounded calmer now, as he performed this soothing ceremony.

It was the only service he could do them for now. Burying them in this corrupted soil was absolutely out of the question. Spirits knew what Rimtori had done with the rest of their bodies, and he had a nagging feeling that he didn't want to know. But the skulls were enough for a proper funeral, at least.

He felt a lot more at ease after the simple ceremony to calm the spirits of the murdered, enough to even smile a bit at the orc couple as they had carefully packed the skulls into a bag. The male took care of it, carrying it towards the waiting mage troll who would make a portal back to Orgrimmar. There the search for the warriors' families could begin.

Together with the woman, Dor'ash headed back to the healer camp. As he walked he glanced towards the crumbling temple up on the hill. Several thin shadows moved about, most of them in robes but some in armor, prepared to aid the magic users should anything else happen. According to those who had been up there during the fight, four large crystals had been floating in the air until Rimtori died – then they had cracked and dissipated. Dor'ash had not even noticed them in the heat of battle.

The bodies of the elves lay heaped some ways to the side of the hill, by their own old tents, and now only the blood in the grass and the wounded showed that anything had happened at all.

Dor'ash was not sure why the Forsaken had chosen to carry Sarah's body up to the temple to work on freeing her from the orb, but he figured they wanted to have some seclusion. Getting up the hill unnoticed would be difficult for enemies, too. He could spot Patrick and Jonathan up there. Sometimes, when the latter straightened his crouching back, it was possible to see that he actually was a little taller than the other skeletal men. It wasn't something that the orc had thought much about before.

Holding back a snicker, Dor'ash continued towards the camp. The spirits were calmed, and he figured that as long as Sarah's soul had not gone beyond, there was some way of getting her back. Well enough to let him smile again.

Well in the healer's camp both he and the orc woman sat down by the orc with the magical burn, Hugg. He looked rather annoyed at not even being able to sit up, but the gruff look eased as Dor'ash called on his healing powers and started working on the wound.

Glancing up, the shaman spotted Fuzzik kneeling by the tauren woman, his now cleaned hands drawing slow circles of green, healing light above her. Most everyone seemed to be ignoring him.

"How is he doing?" Dor'ash asked out of curiosity, nodding at the night elf.

Hugg smirked.

"People were throwing pebbles at him," he said, then looked rather disappointed, "but he never reacted so they gave up."

At that, the purple head, with its messy waterfall of green hair looked around.

"One learns many things about patience when traveling with somebody like Deran," he said in a calm voice, but with a dry smile.

Dor'ash nodded with a snort, and Fuzzik turned back to his patient. For a moment the shaman pondered asking the elf about his real name, but decided against it. Thinking of him as 'Fuzzik' had a certain charm to it.

He finished what magic could do for Hugg, and went about wrapping the remaining tear under a bandage.

They must have waited for him to finish, because it was not until he fastened the clip and stood up that there was a hoarse cough behind him. Dor'ash turned around, raising a questioning eyebrow at Jonathan.

The orb containing Sarah's soul rested between his bony fingers, and behind him stood Patrick and two more Forsaken men. One was the warlock who had captured the Eye of Kilrogg earlier, the other wore a worn, pale grey robe with silver embroideries.

"We have a problem," Jonathan grimly said.

"What then?" Dor'ash said, a cold hand gripping his heart.

Shaking his nearly bald head, the man in the pale robe stepped forwards.

"Master Coldbane, I realize this is a very bold request," the undead priest said, "but we cannot seem to free Miss Nebula's soul from the orb." He pursed his mouth, or what was left of it. "I suggest that you allow us to call Rimtori back to life and make her reverse the spell that trapped our little sister. Afterwards you can of course kill her again."

Hugg and the orc woman growled disbelief from the ground, but Dor'ash didn't reply for a moment.

The spirits were silent. Demonic presence chased them off, and both Patrick and that other warlock had called on their pets during the battle. Therefore, Dor'ash did not think twice about the reason for the absence of otherworldly comments. Still, he would have wanted guidance in this. Now he had to simply trust his gut feeling – and it said that he didn't like this idea. True that he had reason to hate Rimtori, but she had already been killed once. It went against his morals to have her resurrected just to ask a question and then slaughter her again.

A dark voice wondered if he would have been so forgiving if Sarah truly had been lost.

"You really can't do anything?" he asked.

"Lloyd and I also tried to channel Sarah's soul back to her body," Patrick said while the priest shook his head. As he spoke the warlock motioned at the other undead draped in black robes.

As they stood beside each other, the biggest difference between the dark arts users was that Lloyd had more hair left, hanging in dirty locks around his ears. Other than that, the two men were at almost the same level of decay.

"So did I."

The last was Jonathan. The mage straightened his constantly hunched back and looked at Dor'ash with the dull glow which filled his eye sockets.

"I know you don't like the idea," Jonathan said. "Personally I don't care about the ethics. I only want Sarah back. But it's your call."

His speech was rather oddly cut, but his tone and expression sounded and looked relaxed.

For a moment Dor'ash looked at the orb in Jonathan's hands, but from this distance it was impossible to tell what Sarah herself thought about it. Yet, what could she add, if they truly had tried? He might not know the other Forsaken, but if Jonathan said that nothing worked, then Dor'ash could believe that it really didn't.

He grunted.

"Fine," Dor'ash said. "But I'll watch too, to make sure she doesn't try something."

_And make sure that you sadists don't make her second death more painful than necessary. Not that she doesn't deserve it._

"Of course, Master Coldbane," Patrick said with slow nod.

Jonathan glanced into the orb, and saw Sarah press both hands to her head. Dor'ash, however, was far too far away to notice. The undead mage clenched his teeth.

* * *

Dor'ash unceremoniously dumped Rimtori's body on the ground, only taking care not to let her head smash too hard against the ground. Somebody had closed her eyes, but that was the only service done to her. Blood still glistened around the wound in her chest, and thick, black coagulated cakes of it weighed down the tears in her ruined robe. The swordsman who killed her had certainly not been gentle, and the uncaring treatment of the bodies afterwards had only served to smear her further in blood. Some of it might not even have been hers.

Apart from the other undead men, a second priest joined the group in the temple and he and his companion kneeled down on either side of Rimtori. Dor'ash backed away to give them space. A few of the Forsaken soldiers stood along the slope, making sure that nothing would disturb the strange rites and the elf mage would have nowhere to go once she moved again.

Sarah lay further inside the ruined temple, eye sockets staring up at the ancient ceiling and arms gently stretched down along her sides. Her smashed torso had been repaired, and only the stains on her robe proved what had happened. With her mouth slightly open, she almost looked like she was just sleeping.

Looking at Sarah's body while the Forsaken busied themselves with Rimtori, Dor'ash wondered what she had been like in life. The soul gave no real clues. Had undeath given her a new personality or had she always been that cheerfully sarcastic, not overly pleasant woman?

And, he wondered, now that her soul had been "set free" of her decaying flesh, might her old memories return to her, or were they still locked away? Impossible to say until she was restored. If she did recall having a brother named Simon, Dor'ash knew he would have to notify Thomas Southstone and warn him about it.

A hoarse voice called him out of his thoughts, and he turned towards the undead men.

"Normally, Lady Sylvanas is the one who raises the dead to join the Forsaken, if they have been known to be exceptional in life," the first priest said. "I cannot guarantee that she," he touched Rimtori's bloodstained, cool forehead with his raw bone fingertips, "will not be under the Lich King's control when she first awakens."

"What of Sarah, then?" Dor'ash asked, frowning.

"She is already in control of herself, as you know," the priest assured. "There should be nothing to worry about, as long as we get her out of the orb."

They waited for him to slowly nod in reply, although he wasn't sure how exactly to behave in front of something so vile.

Necromancy? The things he got involved with for Sarah's sake.

Patrick and Lloyd moved up behind a kneeling priest each, spreading their arms like a pair of dark-robed scarecrows.

Someone who already was a Forsaken was easier to call back to 'life', their body already wracked with unholy, animating magic. However, Rimtori was not undead (yet), and she had been dead for too long to be salvaged by the magic Dor'ash himself could use. Those shamanistic spells could only jolt somebody back to life if the body was still warm, and the brain had not suffered too much damage from a blow or loss of oxygen.

"Begin," Patrick said.

The first priest raised his hands and held them out, palms down, over Rimtori. His companion mimicked him, one of his thin hands hovering between the other priest's. As they began to murmur, a warm, golden glow rose up around their fingers and swept down over Rimtori's body like an ethereal curtain. That first stage looked perfectly innocent, but then Lloyd and Patrick added their chanting to the spell.

From their hands blasted writhing ropes of darkness, sparks in unclean colors dancing around them as the foul magic joined with the priests'. The snakes of dark power tore through the healing magic, although the priests didn't react, and wound around Rimtori's limbs and neck.

Dor'ash stepped backwards, unable to subdue a sound of disgust. The air filled with a scent of rusted metal, a dry, sour tingle. Those energies reached invisible strings towards anything they could entice – Dor'ash sensed it as an oily feeling across his (discolored by corruption) green skin. He glanced at Jonathan, finding that the mage too had half-turned away.

One of the priests' murmuring rose towards a growl, and his hands twitched away from its position above Rimtori's chest. One sharp motion at the time, the priest pushed the woman's full, stained lips apart.

The dark ropes dove into her mouth, tearing the frail curtain along as they forced themselves into her – not a sound left the elf's lips, but her body violently arched upwards so far that she almost touched the priests' hands.

The tail of the last black snake disappeared between her teeth, and Rimtori flopped back down with a hard thud.

Silence fell over the temple.

Slowly, Dor'ash cautiously lowered his arm. He hoped that the unclean feeling in his chest would fade, but suspected that it would take quite a while. Seeing such a resurrection, sensing the powers at work, was something he could have lived without.

Lloyd sunk down on one knee, bowing his head in a mirror of a living person's exhaustion. Patrick, however, remained standing.

"Need water," the second priest rasped, holding a hand to his throat.

Patrick waved them both aside and they both staggered down the hill. Nobody else in the temple looked away from the elf for a second, however.

Rimtori's eyelids twitched. It was easy to see when she opened her eyes, as a crack of dirty, yellowish light appeared beneath the dainty, dark eyelashes. For what it was worth, she was supposedly cured of her magic addiction.

"Uhh…"

She moved sluggishly, lifting a heavy arm to her face as she groaned.

"I'll take that," Lloyd said, clamping a cold, hard hand around Rimtori's pink wrist. As easy as if she weighed nothing, he dragged her up in a sitting position.

Her eyes shot wide open and a half-strangled cry escaped her. The weak, kittenish attempts to tear herself free may have evoked sympathy in Dor'ash's heart, but the sight left him utterly cold.

She blurted something in Thalassian, raising her other hand with an obvious plan to blast Lloyd's head off with a magic spell. Jonathan grasped that arm and wrenched it up against her back. She winced, then a flash of confusion passed her face as her brain caught up with that it didn't hurt as much as it should have.

"Orcish, if you please," Lloyd said, showing of two rows of rotting teeth in a grin. "We don't speak Prancing Fools."

"Get your hands off me, you filthy beasts!" Rimtori gasped, twisting against the bony fingers.

"She seems to have her mind intact," Jonathan grimly commented.

Smiling, Patrick hunched down in front of the struggling elf.

"Do you remember your name, Miss?" he asked in a silky voice.

He certainly looked like he was enjoying himself – and Dor'ash was fine with that, and watching. He might feel bad about that later, but not right then.

"I have no reason to tell you!" Rimtori snapped. "What do you think you're doing?"

The last was a panicked snarl, coaxed by Patrick reaching towards her chest. His thin fingertips picked at the ruined dress, and a strange sound fled from deep within Rimtori's throat as she looked down and stared at the blood. Mouth open, she threw a wild gaze between the warlock, the wound, and back again.

"Silly girl," Patrick murmured, "a scratch like that must have hurt a lot." As Rimtori crumbled, ceasing all attempts to fight against the men who held her, he added, "enough to kill a pretty little thing like you."

"No… no, no…"

The hoarse whisper received no empathy in reply.

"You get used to it." Jonathan paused, then sneered. "Well, you might not have to get used to it."

Patrick rubbed his fingertips against his robe to clean them of the blood. Why he bothered remained unexplained. Either way, the robe was already so dark and dirty that the new stains hardly could be seen.

"Now then. Magus Rimtori, I presume?" he said.

She numbly nodded, head rising just slightly to stare at the warlock. He reached into a pocket and withdrew the orb, holding it towards her.

"Excellent. Perhaps you would be so kind as to mend this problem you caused our little sister?" He tilted his head slightly, still smiling as he leaned forwards while lowering his voice. "We would… truly appreciate it."

Rimtori's head snapped up, her red lips drawing back from pearl-white teeth in a growl.

"And if I refuse?" she asked. Her voice, however, broke.

"I would be delighted to discuss any of your inhibitions, Miss," Patrick said, leaning forwards still, slow and steady as a tide.

He was so close now that she wrenched herself backwards, gaining about an inch before Jonathan's grip stopped her. Patrick smiled, stroking the orb with his thumb.

"You see, there happen to be several people here who care very much about our little sister. Including him." He motioned at Dor'ash, then looked back at Rimtori. "And he is already very, very angry with you, I'm afraid. I am quite anxious to gain your cooperation."

The back of his bony hand brushed her cold, blood-stained cheek. She threw her head aside, gasping sharply through her teeth – a habitual reaction.

Was there any reason at all for her to feel half as scared of the angry orc, as of the smiling warlock? Dor'ash highly doubted it, having to suppress a wish to scratch his arms to fight the crawling feeling as he watched and listened.

Patrick watched Rimtori for a moment, then nodded.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss," he said.

She swallowed hard. Another habit.

"And- and then what?" she croaked, the hand above Lloyd's grip clenching until it shook.

"Then… oh, I don't know," Patrick said. He shrugged. "But since you've managed to make so many people angry, well… we haven't settled on whether our orc friend should decide what to do with you, or if we should."

When Rimtori's glowing yellow eyes met his, a dry sigh escaped between his lips.

"I have to admit, Miss," he said, and the smile faded, "I'm annoyed."

The pink, clenched hand opened, clenched again, and finally slumped. As did all of Rimtori, her head hanging and heavy, black threads of hair dangling over her stained face.

"Wonderful," Patrick said, smiling again. "I'm pleased we could reach an understanding, very pleased indeed."

At his wave, Lloyd and Jonathan roughly dragged Rimtori to her feet and pushed her over to Sarah's body. Though they let go of her arms, they stood close and watched her every move as she absently rubbed her wrists.

She looked up when Patrick's hand moved within her sight, offering the orb. With a furious, but just as frightened glare, she took the transparent ball between both her trembling hands.

"Don't try anything," Jonathan murmured in a hoarse whisper, close to her ear. "I'm more annoyed than he is."

Rimtori recoiled from him, which caused her to bump into Lloyd. Snarling a curse in Thalassian, she straightened up and avoided the warlock's amused grin. She took in a few more unnecessary breaths and then raised the orb to her chest and closed her eyes.

"Good argumentative technique, there," Dor'ash commented to Patrick as the undead man got a little closer. He looked at the warlock with a mix of fascination and disgust.

"Why thank you." Patrick symbolically brushed his hands off against each other, causing a dry, jangling sound. "I don't like to raise my voice," he added, letting out a hoarse little chuckle.

Dor'ash simply nodded to that, although he could not shake off the feeling that his entire race had just been gravely insulted by that innocent remark. There was just something about Patrick's faint smile.

"Are you really more annoyed than I am, Schiller?" Patrick asked, looking at the mage.

Jonathan pursed his lips, a strange look flashing over his features. If it was unease, it disappeared just as quickly without a trace.

"I'm rather fond of Sarah, Master Hartwell," he said. "I was one of the first Forsaken she befriended."

"Ah yes, of course."

Jonathan completely ignored Dor'ash's raised eyebrow at the "rather fond of" explanation of their relationship.

Could it be that such things were something the Apothecary Society looked down upon?

"Might I have a moment of silence to focus?" Rimtori said in a chilly voice, glaring down at Sarah's body.

"Certainly. Go right ahead," Patrick said.

The elf didn't reply. Her lips moved, voice a papery whisper of strange words.

For a moment nothing happened, but then tiny dark sparks danced from her fingertips and across the smooth surface of the orb. Voice growing louder for each word until she snarled, Rimtori thrust her hands forwards, to hover above Sarah's unmoving chest.

The sparks flared up with anti-light, crackling loud enough to almost drown Rimtori's voice. Dor'ash raised his arm cautiously, but the Forsaken stood firm.

A familiar voice howled, and a pink shadow fell from the orb – miniature at first, but rapidly growing as it plummeted. When it tumbled into Sarah's carcass and faded into it, the soul had the same size as the body. It went past in a flash, leaving only a quick vision of flailing limbs and thin, blonde hair.

The black sparks faded to nothing, and Rimtori flung the orb aside with a disgusted sound. That was all she had time to do before Lloyd grabbed both her upper arms. Jonathan, meanwhile, dropped down and gently took hold of Sarah's shoulders. Frowning concern at her lack of response, Dor'ash sunk down on the other side of her.

"Sarah?" Jonathan said, giving her a light shake.

In the background, Lloyd dragged Rimtori closer to the sloping hillside, as if to move her closer to the rest of the troop. He stayed within the temple with her, however.

"Urgh…" came a groan from Sarah's lips.

She didn't have eyelids to flutter open, so she simply awoke with a start. That mumble was just the warning before she drew in breath to snap.

"I'm _not_ amused!"

Jonathan and Dor'ash grinned wide.

Sarah pushed herself up to standing, swayed but brushed Jonathan aside while waving a finger at Dor'ash's nose. He just rolled his eyes despite her angry tone, too relieved to see her back into her body to be rattled.

"It was you who didn't hold on to me hard enough when I went through the portal," he retorted and stood up, smirking as both her hands balled to fists and waved at him.

"I oughta-"

"As lovely as always, I see," a third voice cut in.

Another bony hand closed around Sarah's right fist and she stiffened, turning sharply towards Patrick. His fingers visibly tightened around hers the moment it looked as if she would pull away. With a firm tug he brought her up against his chest.

"You had me worried, my dear," Patrick said to her thunderstruck expression.

Dor'ash blinked at the display, at the air of familiarity which Patrick moved with. The orc had never heard Sarah mention this man, and he glanced at Jonathan for an explanation. However, the male undead mage just stared at the thin couple, jaw set tight.

Confounded by all this as he was, Dor'ash didn't notice Lloyd whispering in Rimtori's ear. Neither the way she tensed, and whispered back after a moment.

Sarah finally found herself again, placing her free hand against Patrick's chest and shoving hard. They moved apart, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"Don't you get friendly with me!" she snarled, and the next words underscored once and for all that they did know each other. "I've _told_ you-"

Her free hand cleaved the air to emphasize her words, but he caught that too by intertwining his fingers with hers. Bone violently scraped and she furiously tried to wiggle free.

"I came all the way out here just to help you," Patrick said, smile hardening. "The least you can do is say 'thank you'."

As much as Sarah snarled throughout all of this, her attempts to fight back were oddly weak. Just physical struggling, not calling on her usual ability to burn anything that irritated her. As if she either couldn't, or didn't dare to – judging by the look on her face she certainly wanted to.

The scales towards too disturbing tipped, and Dor'ash raised a hand, scowling. He didn't understand, but he definitely didn't like it.

"Am I missing something here?" he sharply said.

Sarah managed to squirm one hand free, moving as far away from the chuckling Patrick as she could and the still trapped hand allowed.

"Not much, no," she snarled, "just a sleazebag in a dark robe."

"Oh, come now." Patrick shook his head and glanced at the frowning Dor'ash. "Well, perhaps all that sounded a little odd. Terribly sorry."

He didn't sound sorry, however, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to explain their strange behavior. Jonathan still hadn't moved, but his hands clenched at his sides.

Dor'ash opened his mouth to ask just what this was about, when there was a sudden, flapping sound. Between the pillars making up the simple temple, the air shimmered. A shout of warning came from one of the guards on the slope, but it was cut off in the middle, leaving only silence from outside. The faint glow in the air solidified into smooth walls, glowing in a dim yellow. If not for that glow, the inside of the temple would have been cast in complete darkness since the sunlight was locked out.

"What the-"

Dor'ash was about to reach out and touch one of the barriers, but thought better of it. By the time he reached that conclusion, the others had gotten over the very brief surprise.

"What did you do _now_?" Patrick snarled and whirled around.

"Not my fault!" Rimtori snapped, recoiling from Patrick as much as Lloyd's grip of her allowed. The frantic tone in her voice was unmistakable. "All your magic triggered one of my experiments."

Lloyd growled and shook his head.

"Then it _is_ your fault, lady," he said. "I'd like to ask you to do something about it, but somehow I feel like not letting you move a finger."

"Have fun trying to get out, then," Rimtori snarled, mouth twisting into a wild sneer.

"We'll have fun alright…" Lloyd growled, giving her a rattle to which she only smirked wider.

Focusing on this pair now, Dor'ash didn't notice Patrick whispering in Sarah's ear while Jonathan grimly looked on. She tensed, hands clenching. That look she cast off, however, as Dor'ash looked around at the trio.

"Well then, now what?" the orc grunted.

"It's a mage's spell," Patrick replied, inclining his head towards Sarah and Jonathan.

The two of them exchanged glances, nodded to each other and shuffled over to the shimmering wall. No sound came from their hands knocking at the barrier, but it was obviously solid.

"Huh, this is pretty odd," Jonathan said, pressing both palms against the magic.

"Whaddaya expect, I don't even want to know what goes on in an elfie's purdy little brain," Sarah commented in a distracted tone.

The annoyed sound from Rimtori went completely ignored. Thoughtfully, Sarah ran her hands across the silent, glowing surface. After a moment she looked around, studying the pillars.

"There's some kind of connection," she said, face tilted upwards. Then she turned her head towards Dor'ash. "Would you be a dear and put your hand against that pillar there?" she said and pointed towards one of the columns on the opposite side from where she stood.

When he raised an eyebrow, she added with a faint smirk:

"No, I don't think it will hurt much."

Letting out a grunt, he moved to obey. Not sure what good that would do, but if she said so…

Afterwards, he would remember that there had been an odd tone to her voice.

Lichen crept up the ancient pillar, so much that he hardly touched any marble at all as he pressed his hand to the sun warmed surface. Only the bumpy, dry vegetation under his palm. Sarah muttered on the other side of the small, enclosed area, and Jonathan joined her after a moment. Difficult to tell if they were managing anything.

Then something flared up in the corner of his vision, and he sharply turned his head to the side. A grey blur hung in the air, shifting, trying to take shape, and the weak spirits of the land howled.

An outline, more a shadow than anything, but for just a second the image cleared – a huge wolf, its teeth bared in a growl towards something behind Dor'ash. It flickered, as if somebody was using some foul magic to block the vision.

' _BEWARE!'_

He spun around as the spirit guardian shattered, ducking just in time to avoid a demon's sweeping, crimson blade. It cut deep into the pillar instead, and bits of marble rained down. But the creature's other hand smashed into Dor'ash's stomach, knocking all air out of him. With black spots dancing before his eyes he stumbled aside, grasping for his war hammer and struggling for breath.

The demon grinned down at him, a red giant of muscles in golden bits of armor. A doomguard, its huge leathery wings folded against its back and horned head almost touching the ceiling – where had that thing come from? A backup plan of Rimtori's?

The others-

A blast of searing pain flared through Dor'ash's hand and he roared, losing grip of the war hammer. It thumped into the grass. Through the veil of rage and pain Dor'ash looked past the demon, and saw Lloyd standing there, smiling, finger still stretched to point at the orc's hand. In a flash, Dor'ash took in the rest of the Forsaken, all unmoving – apart from Sarah. She raised her hands behind Patrick's shoulder, but froze in the middle of the motion.

She did nothing to help.

Dor'ash didn't even have time to think, no time for drawing breath to curse the treacherous undead. He ducked another punch from the demon, but black threads suddenly flared up around his arms, forcing them up against his back. The force of it and his own momentum threw him off balance and he crashed on the ground. Immediately the doomguard slammed its foot down on Dor'ash's chest, snarling in vicious triumph. Struggling desperately, the orc could only watch the huge sword rise above him, sharp edge aimed at his heart. Something blocked him, muting his call to the forces of nature-

"Hold."

The sword froze at the simple word. A growl left the demon's throat as it turned around and gave Patrick a disappointed look. The undead man lowered his hand.

"There's no need to waste a perfectly good shaman," Patrick said, smiling.


	5. Loyalty

Lloyd hoarsely chuckled agreement to Patrick's last comment, and Rimtori glared down at Dor'ash with a hungry smile on her cooling lips.

"Trai- mmph!" The orc's enraged snarl got cut off when Lloyd waved his hand. A flash of darkness closed around Dor'ash's mouth, and all feeling drained from his lower face.

Behind the warlocks and the elf stood Jonathan and Sarah, her hands still half raised. But now she let them sink and folded her arms across her chest. It was Jonathan who spoke, rolling his head in disbelief.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Change of plans." Patrick patted Rimtori's arm, and though she clenched her fists she didn't move away from his touch. "She has wisely agreed to meet with Master Varimathras. Lloyd and I both think that her research shouldn't be wasted."

"That out of body experience was really uncomfortable!" Jonathan said, thumping his chest in annoyance. But when Patrick looked at him he made a calming motion with his hands. "No, no, Sir. I see your point."

"Bah!"

The last was Sarah. She jabbed a sharp finger at Rimtori, and the blood elf glared at her.

"Don't think for a moment that I'm done with you," Sarah snarled.

Patrick waved her hand aside.

"Take your complaints to the dreadlord," he said.

"Oh, you're a riot!" she snapped, lowering the remains of her eyebrows at him.

He just smirked.

Dor'ash furiously thrashed under the weight of the demon's foot, which caused them all to look down at him again.

"Ah yes," Lloyd said, smiling. "Most unfortunate, Master Coldbane. I'm afraid that you'll just have to disappear."

Dor'ash snarled against the magical gag, but beneath the rage his blood ran cold as ice. He twisted his face towards Sarah, and she turned away.

She turned away.

For a moment, everything he saw was red. Then the demon kicked him over and his head slammed into one of the crumbling pillars. Slumping and cursing in his mind, he tried to catch his breath.

No, no, no…!

"Not that unfortunate," he heard Patrick say. "My associates have been complaining for a while about not having a shaman to dissect."

"And how are we going to make this look for everyone outside?" Jonathan asked, stretching a finger in the direction of the slope beyond the magical wall.

"Rimtori summoned a demon, and in the confusion made a portal and fled through it. Coldbane and I chased through just before it closed." Patrick smiled, showing off two rows of chipped teeth. "It's not too far from the truth, now is it?"

"Fine," Sarah said, looking back and folding her arms. "But I'm not opening any damn portal." She turned her face briefly towards the trapped orc, then looked back at her brethren. "He collected some of those people out there to help me. I owe him that much."

Dor'ash stared up at her emotionless face. She didn't even glance at him.

"How cute," Patrick commented. When Sarah snorted, he throatily chuckled.

"You're excused," Lloyd agreed. "We must, after all, maintain some sense of loyalty."

To that, Sarah said nothing.

Lloyd reached into one of the bags by his belt and drew out a rune of portals.

"Society basement, Schiller," he said, holding out the carved stone. "We don't want anyone from outside seeing the orc."

Bowing his head, Jonathan took the rune.

"As you wish. One moment."

He raised the stone plate in both hands and began muttering under his breath. Patrick, in turn, looked at his doomguard and waved his hand in a signal to proceed. Grinning with its entire face, the giant warrior let its sword flare out of existence. It bent down, grabbed Dor'ash's arms and hauled him to his feet, preparing to drag him through the portal as soon as it opened. Dor'ash furiously fought to break free and tried to kick at the demon, but its arms were too long. It could easily hold him at bay.

"Your orcish body count is getting impressive," Lloyd said, almost all his teeth showing when he grinned at Rimtori.

Sarah touched Jonathan's arm and he glanced at her. His nod was almost too tiny to notice.

She did not need to take in a deep breath, but she clenched and unclenched her hands.

"Foolish brutes, the lot of them," Rimtori said, smirking although she tilted her head further away from Lloyd's smile.

Dor'ash snarled again, only earning sneers from them as the gag killed most of the sound.

"Go ahead and show off all your teeth, greenskin," Rimtori added, waving at the ground where the heap of skulls had been. "It's what they did, too."

_You blasted little-!_

The doomguard dug its claws into Dor'ash's arms, so deep he thought it reached to his bones. He writhed, hissing against the gag with white blotches dancing in his vision. Blood trickled down over his skin, dark and hot. He felt the demon's delight like a stench in the air, how it hungrily lapped up this simple, first taste of agony.

From far away, above his own growling, he heard Sarah say something in Gutterspeak.

"Hm?" Patrick said, turning his head towards her.

Sarah snatched the rune from Jonathan's hands and flung it into Patrick's face as he looked around. He staggered backwards and nearly fell over with a surprised snarl, the carved stone clattering over the ground by his feet.

"What the hell?" Lloyd snarled, both him and Rimtori spinning around.

The red glow from Sarah's hands sent shadows dancing over her hollow face.

"I just wanted to say," she said through her teeth, "I don't like it when people mess with my pet orc."

"You little traitor!" Lloyd growled, crouching as his hands flared up with darkness. Behind him, Rimtori cautiously backed a couple of steps, but she watched these events unfold with more interest than anything else.

One mage against two warlocks, another mage, and a doomguard? Unless Sarah had a plan, and Dor'ash could only fervently hope she did, there was no way she could last the minute. At least the demon didn't move, only watched.

Jonathan stumbled aside and Sarah sidestepped, circling further away from Lloyd without returning his taunt.

"No."

Patrick's voice cut through everything, low and dark. He leaned against one of the pillars, and at this one single syllable Lloyd's spell faded on his fingers. It did not escape Dor'ash that Sarah tensed, but her magic light turned crimson.

A bony hand reached out, finger stretching towards the lone, decaying woman.

"That little rat is mine," Patrick said.

Dor'ash hit the ground hard, squinting desperately through the mist of pain to see the doomguard rush Sarah. She never had a chance. The two fireballs she threw simply burnt the huge creature's armor, but they didn't halt its charge.

Ducking aside she saved herself for a fraction of a second before a huge hand snapped around her waist and sent her crashing into another pillar. There the doomguard stopped, holding her squirming form against the stone, her feet kicking pathetically. The hands scraping against the demon's gauntlet sounded like nails on a chalk board, and a second volley of red light frantically flared around her fingers.

Until Patrick closed the distance and grabbed Sarah's right wrist, his hand coated in darkness. Like a candle blown out the magical glow died and she slumped, a groan escaping her lips.

He grasped her by the throat with his other hand, forcing her head up against the pillar.

"You… for what, that?" He nodded in Dor'ash's direction, rattling Sarah's neck.

Like a cat she scratched at his arm, but it did about as much as against the demon. The only difference was that she managed to tear open Patrick's long sleeve.

"Burn in hell!" she grit between her teeth, digging her fingertips into his arm when he squeezed her thin throat.

"You little orc whore. And that's laughable- _what_?"

He furiously looked around with a snarl as a thin hand landed on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, that's my girlfriend you're messing with," Jonathan said, jabbing his thumb at Sarah.

The warlock spun at him, fingertips slicing the skin on Sarah's neck and arm as he let go of her.

"To hell with you, she's-!"

Too late Patrick noticed the white glow beside him. Hissing, he tried to duck, but with the most hideous smile Dor'ash had ever seen on her lips, Sarah let loose her spell. Patrick's furious shriek turned into a loud bleating.

A skinny, balding sheep staggered aside, eyes glowing unnaturally and naked ribs showing through a tear in its side.

Normally, this would of course only have slightly lowered the odds momentarily, leaving Lloyd, Rimtori and the doomguard to fight against. Still not good odds for Sarah and Jonathan. Also it would not have taken more than a hit or small spell to blast Patrick out of the enchantment, if he did not manage to free himself first.

However, it took about half a second for the doomguard to realize that its master had been reduced to a rather helpless shape. It flung Sarah aside and spun around, ducking the dark spear Lloyd sent flying at it. One gigantic hand rose up, and the crimson sword flared back into existence in the demon's grip.

Patrick had no chance to avoid the sword, staggering on his cloven hooves as he was. The hoarse "baa!" ended in a wet smash, and a half cleaved, half crushed heap of wool and rotten flesh crashed into the ground. It faded into a wretched pile of black cloth, and thin, broken limbs as soon as it landed. The smashed in skull ascertained that Patrick would not get up on his own again.

The brief, shocked silence shattered when Sarah giggled. Just a brief, high-pitched sound at first, but then she did it again. Then it poured out of her in an unsteady, breathless stream, rising to a hoarse cackling. She shook, pressing loosely parted fingers against her mouth, like a cage to hold in her hysterics. For a moment it looked like she would fall to her knees, but Jonathan slipped an arm under her armpits.

"Now you've gone and done it, luv," he said, grinning.

She couldn't reply, only nodded without for a moment turning her no-gaze away from the dark heap on the ground.

Dor'ash watched, unable to move, eyes thin and a greatly disturbed feeling filling him.

That was when Lloyd started swearing in Gutterspeak. And that roused the demon from its triumphant stupor, as well.

The now masterless doomguard threw a very quick glance around, seeing one undead couple close by – out of which the woman wasn't even looking at the demon, busy as she was staring at the remains of Patrick with an insane grin on her face – and a second couple a little further away, the woman's hands glowing blue and the man snarling about traitors. There was the orc too, but since he was fettered, he wasn't much to bother with for a start.

Demons generally don't even consider gratitude. However, perhaps this one at least felt a bit of kinship with Sarah, as her hateful glee of Patrick's state made her face a mask of depravity.

Most probably, the hellbeast only figured it would kill the helpful little gits a minute later than the others. What it thought did not matter however, because the important thing was that it launched itself towards Lloyd and Rimtori instead of Sarah and Jonathan.

The warlock and the mage leapt in one direction each to avoid the assault, and the doomguard aimed its swing towards Lloyd. It probably didn't like the dark robe, reminiscent of its ex-master's clothing. He managed to avoid the blow however, by throwing himself on the ground and rolling back up to his feet with surprising agility.

Rimtori launched a blast of magical ice from her hands. It hit the doomguard's right hoof and splattered onto the ground, instantly freezing. Furiously snarling, the demon struggled to free itself and the ice let hear a worrisome, cracking sound.

Behind the doomguard, Jonathan gently pushed Sarah aside and threw out his hands, rapidly muttering. A second blue flare shot through the air and caught the left hoof as well, leaving the doomguard violently trying to pull both its legs free.

"Sorry about that, mate," Jonathan said when the demon turned its head and snarled at him, as the _ungrateful_ little git he had turned out to be. "You're just too big and angry for my tastes."

Roaring, the beast swung its arms and the sword. Standing too close to the walls of the temple hampered its mobility further, and both Lloyd and Rimtori managed to get out of reach. Lloyd backed, a boiling, sickly purple light rising around his fingers as he growled a spell. The same glow whipped up around the doomguard, but it didn't seem to notice in its fury. It noticed when Lloyd's spell changed from purple to a boiling darkness, however, and a bolt of anti-light pierced the massive, red chest. The demon howled, tearing at the ice and flailing to reach the tormentor, but it couldn't free itself quickly enough.

Lloyd's second blast hit the doomguard and it crumbled, its body growing fuzzy around the edges – but in its last moment it looked towards Patrick's remains, and the final expression on its face was one of triumph. Then its sword fell from its hand and its legs buckled, the ice cruelly holding it up. The demon quickly grew transparent and faded from the world, leaving only a smell of sulfur and two great hollows in the big smear of ice on the ground.

The two undead pairs glared across the ice, now that there wasn't a demon to block the view any longer.

"Right then…" Jonathan said, looking at Sarah as she stepped up beside him. "Ready for the autumn cleaning, honey?"

The insanity had blown over, replaced by a collected smirk.

"Of course, darling," she sweetly said. "For shame! Those carpets definitely need a beating."

"Do you even understand your situation?" Lloyd snarled, pointing at what remained of Patrick.

"Yes," Jonathan said, grinning and pulling his staff from his back. The crystals adorning the long, twisted cane flared up with magic. "Do you?" A pale, bluish glow rose up around his and Sarah's robes, marking their raised arcane defenses.

"You killed Master Patrick!"

"And you're not invited to the line dance on his grave," Sarah said.

"Oh, but he and I are going to have a ball, for all of us," Lloyd said, voice lowering to a hiss, "telling Master Varimathras and Lady Sylvanas that you've betrayed the Society."

"Really?" Sarah replied, slowly sidestepping together with Jonathan. "I'm going to tell Lady Sylvanas that there were a couple of bootlickers wanting to give Varimathras a pretty unpleasant spell."

"No one likes a tattletale, girl."

"Well, no sane person likes to dance to a dreadlord's finger snapping, either," Jonathan retorted. "I know _I_ don't want to do that again."

He sounded distracted as he spoke, fingers wiggling against the staff.

"Pathetic," Rimtori snapped from her corner of the temple, eying all three of them.

The fact that they ignored her probably did not make her any more pleased.

Lloyd's hand flew towards a pocket in his robe, other arm lashing out as he snarled a magic command. Another shadow bolt seared across the temple, barely missing Sarah's head as she ducked aside. Jonathan waved at her as they both darted in a direction each, enveloping her in a greenish, second protective glow.

"Oh shut up!" Sarah snarled, clawing at the air in Lloyd's direction with a flaring hand.

He couldn't duck that even if he tried, second spell abruptly cut off as Sarah's attack locked his tongue. Clawing at his throat and shooting her a murderous glare, he clasped something in one hand and made a whipping motion with the arm. Foul light sprung from the closed fist and hit the ground, forming a circle.

It was gone in the next moment, but the low giggle announced the arrival of a succubus even if she instantly disappeared from plain view, cloaking herself in invisibility.

Fire balls sprung from Sarah's hands as she leaped back and forth, knowing there was a whip incoming that she wouldn't see until it hit her. Still muted, Lloyd ducked and rolled to avoid the fire, his face scrunched up with rage.

"Any time now, sweetheart!" Sarah grunted.

Jonathan's reply was to throw out his arms with a wordless shout, staff in one hand and sparkling with blue light. At this movement the ice before his feet shattered, tearing up half of the frozen water that had kept the doomguard stuck. The shards spun through the air as if drawn by a whirlwind, becoming liquid in an instant and taking a shape. A pair of ornate gold bracers condensed around the emerging creation's arms.

"Find the hidden succubus, if ya please!" Jonathan called over the sound of rushing water.

The water elemental's massive arm swept out, cascading clear liquid across the entire temple – which both Sarah and Rimtori voiced protests at, and Lloyd, still with his tongue locked up, angrily grunted at. Dor'ash could only shake his head and blink, trying to get rid of the water in his eyes.

It worked, however – the succubus' angry squeal and her invisible body catching a huge splash of water gave away her position. Her veiling spell shattered. But, this all revealed that she was practically standing on Jonathan. Quick as lightning she changed grip on her whip, taking it in both hands and throwing it over the mage's head, down to his throat. Softly giggling, revealing sharp, pearl white teeth, she pulled and twisted her hands over each other just behind his neck. The barbed length of rope dug into Jonathan's throat, cutting grey skin open. He flailed, blindly fumbling for the whip - didn't need to breathe to 'live,' but if he couldn't breathe then he could not speak, could not chant the spells he needed.

The water elemental gave a bubbling roar and tumbled towards the succubus to save his master, but she dove aside, dragging the struggling Jonathan along to the ground.

Though cursing, Sarah didn't let her boyfriend's troubles distract her as she kept sending waves of fire against Lloyd, who despite his ducking and soaked state had gotten quite a few burns by now.

Unfortunately, focusing on trying to burn him to a cinder made Sarah forget to count the seconds of how long the counterspell would last. Black tendrils burst through her attacks, swept down and then up around her before she could duck. The protective glow around her desperately intensified but her attacks ceased as she shrieked in fury, clawing at the black, corrupting taint digging into her skin and bones.

"Now then…" Lloyd growled. At his wave the dark snakes faded, but a misty glow remained, connecting the stains on Sarah's face and arms with the warlock. He made a grabbing motion, and then flung black bolt after black bolt after her, forcing her back as she had done with him moments before – but with substantially more force.

Sarah stumbled as she tried to avoid the attacks, the corruption in her body draining her while granting Lloyd even more power for his dark magic.

"And are you going to help or will I have the delight of slowly killing you as well?" Lloyd snarled at Rimtori.

She snorted, sneering.

"You seem to be doing wonderfully on your own," she pointed out. However, perhaps deciding that it might be wise to not anger a furious warlock even more – especially as it seemed he would still be quite powerful at the approaching end of the battle – she raised her hands and sent a volley of flames into the water elemental.

The aquatic creature roared again, distracted from its attempt to drown the succubus with a rotating torrent from its arms. It spun around and sent a blast of water towards Rimtori instead, but she froze the attack in midair with an ice spell. The force of the impact sent the block of ice crashing onto the ground.

Behind the water elemental, though, the succubus had gotten half-drowned enough to be so disoriented that her grip relented. Jonathan squirmed free, fighting his way up on his knees even though his drenched robe pulled him down. The succubus struggled as well, spitting water and gasping for air, until Jonathan slapped his hand towards her chest and snarled. An icicle as thick as his arm flashed into existence and bore into the demon's chest. She screamed, arching upwards and writhing for a moment before slumping down. Like the doomguard had done, she faded out of existence. The icicle fell over and shattered.

Lloyd snarled in rage, his blasts of shadow magic slowing as he twisted his head towards Jonathan.

"I see we're going to have to take turns killing you two!" the warlock hissed, then sneered at the sight of the mage struggling to get to his feet, trembling and supporting himself on his staff.

The warlock's attention was called back as Sarah leapt towards him, hand lashing out. Flames whipped across his chest and he recoiled, raising his hands instinctively. A mad sneer touched Sarah's face as she planted her feet firmly on the ground and threw up both arms.

Above her head, a huge, transparent dragon's head appeared, white hot fire flickering around its teeth as the great maw opened.

Lloyd chuckled, and Sarah's triumphant grin turned into the shock of horrible suspicion. The dragon spewed forth its fire, searing the ground and blackening the pillar behind the warlock. It was so hot that the chained Dor'ash felt it despite his distance. But as the flames died and the apparition hovering above Sarah vanished, Lloyd stood there untouched, enclosed in a fading, felfire-green shield.

Sarah swayed, rasping out a curse – that last attack had taken almost all she had left, by the look of it. The black spots on her skin pulsated as she stumbled back.

"The Nether is stronger than you, little mage," Lloyd said.

Jonathan staggered towards the two of them, growling and picking up speed as he raised one hand. In the background, the water elemental was still keeping Rimtori busy – or rather, she was keeping it busy.

Lloyd was quicker than Jonathan. He straightened, drawing in breath. What left his mouth had nothing of his voice – it was an unearthly howl worthy of a demon, filled with mind-numbing shadow magic which momentarily colored the very air dark.

Even though he wasn't even in the direct path of the spell, a wave of unnatural, aimless dread poured onto Dor'ash's already very real fears and he uselessly writhed against his bonds, unable to help himself.

Sarah held up for a second before she shrieked, not in rage but fear. She recoiled, the howl continued until she fell to her knees, clutching her head and trembling like a leaf in the storm. Lips moving and forming broken words that didn't make sense in any language, only a frantic, mad murmur.

"Hmph." Lloyd snorted, raising his hands to finish off the terrified mage.

Water sloshed over him, throwing him aside and breaking his focus. The elemental continued the attack, but aimed its second blast towards his own master instead, sending Jonathan out of his magic-induced, fearful recoil. He reeled towards Sarah instead, falling over just in front of her pathetic curl.

Scrambling to his knees, Jonathan looked around just in time to see his elemental take the full brunt of Rimtori's next huge fire ball right in the back. Gurgling, the water creature twisted, boiling apart. It broke with a huge splash, bracelets hitting the ground and shattering. Lifeless water flooded the frozen, scorched ground.

But though he was down, the blow had apparently knocked sense back into Jonathan. With a snarl on his lips he got to his feet, facing Rimtori and the cursing Lloyd.

"Sarah!" he snapped, then unceremoniously knocked his staff against her head and shoulders.

"Agh!" On the second smack she shot up straight, gasping.

That ought to prove to all involved that the Nether, while strong, has severe limitations as well. Pretty sad not being strong enough to withstand a few baps to the head.

"Shield me!" Sarah snarled, climbing to her feet. Her voice was high-pitched, but the rage was back in it.

Lloyd was already drawing his hands back to start with the hail of shadow bolts again. Grunting, Jonathan stepped up in front of Sarah, raising his staff in both hands. As he quickly muttered, the air condensed in a bubble of ice around him, spreading far enough to offer some protection to the woman using him as cover. She raised one hand and turned the other palm towards the ground, moving her feet apart. A wind with no natural origin fluttered her hair, already dried by the heat of her own magic.

"Stop her!" Lloyd shouted at Rimtori, who bared her white teeth but cautiously moved along the walls of the temple to get at Sarah.

Jonathan's head turned back and forth, the glow of his hands illuminating the ice around him as he tried to be prepared for both opponents at the same time. Behind his back Sarah seemed blind and deaf to everything, the wind fluttering her hair with more strength. Then the air shimmered around her, indigo wisps weaving out of nothing and whirling into Sarah's body in a desperate gamble to siphon magical stamina right out of the very atmosphere.

Seeing that Rimtori was just about in position to have an open shot at Sarah, Jonathan –although he knew that it was probably not a good idea, and also that he would feel whatever came next in the morning, provided he survived – sent a bolt of ice right through his shield without harming it, and at the elf's feet. She leaped backwards, casting her own spell but missing spectacularly as she slipped on the spreading ice and stumbled against one of the pillars.

Ice shattered, water hissed and Jonathan winced as he spun to see a growing hole in his defense, magical, undying fire eating a hole in the barrier. He raised his hand to mend it, only to be struck with what tore through the opening. The staff fell out of his grip and he tumbled against the inside of his shield, scratching at it, howling in pain of a sort even Forsaken could feel. A sickly green, twisting rope dug into his chest, pulsating like a vein as it sucked the life right out of Jonathan and into Lloyd. The warlock straightened, the burns visible under his tattered robes melting away.

And then there was a twinkling sound, and Sarah appeared out of thin air right behind the warlock. With a shriek she grabbed his hair and wrenched, tearing handfuls of the meager locks free but managing to force his eyes and focus onto something completely different. The foul drain spell snapped, the ends twisting as if alive for a second before turning to smoke and dissipating. Jonathan tumbled against his barrier and onto the ground, clutching his chest.

Rimtori hesitated while Lloyd and Sarah cursed, wrenching at each other – finally she stepped back, hands half raised.

Flames flared around Sarah's hands, searing Lloyd as much as her – Stranglethorn Vale flashed past in Dor'ash's mind, of that time when she set herself on fire as a distraction. She would do it again.

"Jonathan!" she shouted, locking her arms under Lloyd's armpits and blindly scratching at him with burning hands.

A trembling hand rose inside of the ice barrier, shaking until Jonathan grabbed his wrist to steady himself. Searing winds bearing razor sharp icicles churned from his palm, crashing in full force into Lloyd who howled – not like a demon, but with his normal voice filled with rage and pain. His body took the brunt of the attack, shielding Sarah.

Daggers of ice dug into his throat, his chest and his face. Though he struggled furiously, his body finally gave in. He slumped, unmoving as the hail ceased.

Sarah wrestled him aside and sent a fireball flying into his back for good measure. He twitched, groaning, and laid still. Scrambling to her feet, she aimed a kick at his neck, but Lloyd didn't react.

Forsaken don't fall unconscious.

Jonathan's barrier cracked and fell apart around him, and he almost fell forwards but caught himself on his hands.

"Wonderful job, princess," Sarah said in a hoarse voice, clapping her hands. It sounded like a bunch of castanets rattling.

"Aw, you haven't called me that in ages." Jonathan tiredly rolled his shoulders, but grinned.

Sarah gave him a sugary smile. Then she looked up at Rimtori, and her greenish lips drew back from her yellow and blackened teeth. Sharp, hard finger bent like claws.

Rimtori's expression, on the other hand, wavered between fury and disbelief. She narrowed her eyes at the much skinnier undead woman, obviously thinking something along the lines of "she wouldn't…". Her hands rose to call on more magic.

Dor'ash could only watch, with a (half-guilty, because in all honestly it was plain _stupid_ ) pang of vicious amusement. He knew Sarah. He knew she would.

And she did.

Shrieking, she flared out of existence, flared back several steps ahead. Now within ample reach, Sarah threw herself at Rimtori, shattering the elf's focus and spell. The two of them went down cursing and clawing at each other. The fierce, if clumsy, wrestling left little room for focusing enough for spells, apart from fizzling sparkles of red and blue singeing one or the other briefly.

"Girls, girls! Play nice!" Jonathan cheered in the background, though he did so while drawing himself up against a pillar, casually folding his arms across his chest.

Though Rimtori put up a fairly good fight, it showed that she was not at all used to direct combat, while Sarah knew every nasty trick anyone had ever invented. The undead catfight ended with Sarah sitting on Rimtori, pressing the hissing and twisting elf's wrists into the ground.

"It's not nice to call people 'greenskin'," Sarah said, smiling a few inches from Rimtori's snarl. "Why don't you be a good girl and take it back, hmm?"

She didn't give the elf time to reply, but wrenched her over on her stomach and grabbed her dark hair, forcing Rimtori's head so far back her neck might have snapped. Dor'ash looked on, with a mix of smugness and apprehension as the fine, but by rage- and pain-distorted face was forced in his direction.

"Apologize, I say!" Sarah hissed, giving Rimtori a shake for good measure.

A thick, almost black drop of blood slithered through the elf's hair from where Sarah's fingertips dug into her skin, sluggishly continuing down the brittle jaw and throat.

Rimtori winced and squirmed, but her face twisted further with an obstinate sneer.

"Go to hell, you ugly lich," she snarled, yellow eyes rolling.

Sarah reached down and rapped her fingertips against the exposed throat, causing little red pinpricks on the skin.

"Last chance to die pretty."

"Orc whore!"

"Yeah well," Sarah said, moving her fingers to Rimtori's cheek. "It wasn't I who slept with one of them just to get hold of a few skulls." She clapped her dirty, ravaged hand over the full lips to silence the snarl, smiling only a little less nastily than she had done when turning Patrick into a doomed sheep. "Now then… shall I string you up and play for a while, like you did to me? Hmm… nah."

She changed her hold in an instant, plunging the fingers of both hands through Rimtori's cheeks. The scream ended when Sarah changed the torture to a grip, and twisted hard. With a crack, Rimtori's neck broke.

The elf slumped to the ground, bleeding flesh ripping free of Sarah's fingers by gravity alone. Wide open eyes stared at nothing, the delicate face wrecked and bloody.

Whatever magic animated the undead, it had its strange similarities to life. Unless, of course, Rimtori's mind was still perfectly functional, but the twisted neck made it impossible for her to move her body for the time being.

On the other hand, then she should have been able to move her eyes, at least. Even so, a snapped neck would only keep an undead down for a little while.

Dor'ash had seen far worse things in his days, and he well knew that Sarah had a sadistic streak. However, this cheerful cruelty made his stomach churn. She often spoke of horrible things she _would like_ to do – but never acted on. It screamed against her carefree nature, proved things he'd never been able to believe about her.

What had Rimtori done to her to draw that out, more than just sucking Sarah's soul out of her body? He probably didn't want to know.

Letting out a disgusted sound, Sarah climbed off of Rimtori's remains and rubbed her sullied hands against the grass, then her robes – still wet from the water elemental's search for the succubus. Jonathan took a few steps closer, gulping down water from a flask as if his unlife depended on it. Finishing that, he leant over her, tilting his head curiously.

"What's the matter? It's just blood," he commented.

"No," Sarah grunted. "It's blood and elf saliva."

"Ah. Ew."

He moved aside as she stood up and briefly turned to him.

"Burn the 'locks," Sarah said, waving at Jonathan while heading towards Dor'ash. "We still need Rimtori's head. Keep an eye on her in case she starts moving again."

With a grim nod Jonathan hunched down in front of Patrick's remains, hands glowing deep red. Still, Dor'ash noticed how that look changed into a satisfied smirk just a moment before the orc's full attention turned to Sarah.

She knelt beside him and felt around over the gag, causing a rattling sound as her dirty fingers tapped against it.

"Damn warlocks and their damn, damn- hmph…" She snorted and turned her head slightly, empty eye sockets staring straight into Dor'ash's eyes. "Just a minute. I'll have you free in a second, I promise."

She paused for a moment, lowering her head as if trying to gather strength. Looking at her then, she made a sorry sight – robe torn up and scorched, the marks of Lloyd's corrupting magic only now fading. They still looked like bruises on her face, though they would soon be gone.

Jonathan was no better, tattered robe still dripping wet thanks to his pet's antics. Sarah had at least managed to dry herself somewhat during the fight.

Taking in a deep, technically unnecessary breath, she returned to the bindings.

Dor'ash laid still and bore her sharp fingertips against his cheek, relieved but still feeling a sizzling unease at what he had witnessed. He needed answers, to questions he could not voice yet. In the background, two fires flared up, and a stench of burning, rotten flesh filled the air. Dor'ash pinched his eyes shut and tried to keep his stomach from turning. The flames faded after a few seconds, leaving only two piles of ash and the lingering stench. Even bones were easily and quickly destroyed in magical fire. Nodding, Jonathan stood up and looked towards his allies.

"Aha…" Sarah muttered.

She slapped lightly at the gag, and it dissipated. While she reached forwards to remove the spell holding his arms, Dor'ash worked his stiff jaw. A moment later the pressure on his arms disappeared too.

"Are you alright?" Sarah asked.

He grunted, watching the two of them warily as he climbed to his feet, carefully massaging his wrists. His right hand still stung from Lloyd's spell, and he had troubles moving the fingers. Not to mention how much the wounds from the demon's claws throbbed and burned. A healing spell should take care of it, but he was in no mind to work one. For now, he settled on trying not to move too much.

Standing, Sarah raised her hands towards his arm but stopped and drew back.

"Don't give me that look," she said and stuck up what would have been her nose if she'd had one, "I had to wait for an opening to see if Jonathan was in on helping me, before I could make a move."

"So you waited until he had called his demon, and I was tied up," Dor'ash coldly said.

"I'm not psychic, you know."

She turned away as he kept watching her.

"How should I have known what they planned?" she added defensively, kicking at Rimtori's stained chest. "And there was no way that I would let her get a career leap after what she did. Good riddance!"

Dor'ash's shoulders cautiously sank.

The lady didst protest too loudly about her reasoning. However…

"What did you _think_ they had planned? To just knock me out and run off?" he sharply asked.

For a moment she glared at him, quite a feat with no eyes. When she finally spoke, the first few words came out grudgingly, then the rest poured from her lips.

"Patrick ordered me to distract you for a few seconds. I didn't know he would summon something like that. Well, you smashed my chest in. We're even."

That was the closest she would ever get to saying "forgive me". He was about to let out a skeptic snort and leave it at that, when her face scrounged up in a grimace.

"I would never have let them kill you," she grumbled, looking away.

Alright, so she _could_ apparently allow herself even closer to actually asking forgive. Huh.

Slowly, Dor'ash shook his head.

"Crazy girl," he muttered, and Sarah gave him a weak, wry smile.

But he was far, far from at ease.

"Does lady Sylvanas support members of the Horde 'disappearing'?" he asked, voice deep inside his throat.

Sarah's smile died. She and Jonathan exchanged glances, but even as they did so, the latter was speaking. There was no pause for silent agreements.

"Lady Sylvanas, no," Jonathan said. "I'm quite sure she would not be amused over the jeopardizing of our alliance with your people."

Dor'ash began to speak again, but this time Sarah did put her hand on his lower arm. When he looked at her, she pressed a finger against her lips.

"We do not speak of it," she said in a low voice. "I have not told you. There are those amongst us who serve Lady Sylvanas, and those who seek to gain Varimathras' favor."

After a moment he slowly nodded. Fools would always be drawn to dangerous power, and it was not as if the dreadlord was generally believed to be completely tamed. Still, that information hardly made him feel much better.

"And have there been disappearances of this kind before?" he demanded.

"I've been in the Apothecary Society's research labs many times," Sarah said. "There are test subjects, yes, but they are Scourge and monsters. I've never seen another member of the Horde there. Believe me, Dor'ash."

"That doesn't mean that there aren't any," he darkly said.

"True. But Lady Sylvanas is no fool," Jonathan said. "If there are those who keep any of our allies as guinea pigs, they are to us what the Burning Blade is to you people."

Dor'ash looked between the two of them. Deep down, he suspected that there was something they didn't want to tell him, but the first bit of relief had allowed the dam of exhaust to burst. Now it hit him in full force, when the most pressing things on his mind had been offered answers. Deciding if he believed those answers in full or not would have to be a thought for later.

He leaned against one of the pillars, wanting to rub his forehead but deciding not to due to his wounds.

This day had just been too much.

"I hope you don't expect me to carry you down from here and all the way to the Barrens, now," Sarah said, leaning forwards and gazing up at his face. "Dear me. Grema will rip my head off for letting you get this ragged."

Grema…

The name promised a haven where he could forget all the stress and pain of today, but he pushed it off his mind for now. Thinking of that, when it was so far away, would only make him feel even more drained. There was still so much to do here before he could even allow himself to think about leaving Azshara.

He looked up at the sound of steps and watched Jonathan walk along the magical wall, running his hand over it as he headed for the part where the ground dipped towards the mainland.

"Not shabby," Jonathan said, stopping by the beginning of the small path. "As I understand it, it can only be opened from inside. My guess is that she didn't use it during the battle because she didn't have a chance to stand still and focus long enough."

"Can you open it?" Dor'ash asked, trying not to sound as tired as he felt.

Jonathan nodded.

"Just give me one minute," he said. "But…" Grimly shaking his head, he looked at the two of them. "We don't know how many of the Forsaken out there were loyal to the warlocks. We better not let them know exactly what happened."

Dor'ash rubbed his neck.

"True," he said. "And if the non-Forsaken find out about this, they might decide to try to clear all of you out here. Let us say that Rimtori killed the warlocks and did something we need to report directly to the Warchief and Lady Sylvanas."

"Agreed."

Jonathan turned back towards the magical wall. He moved his feet further apart and pressed his palms against the barrier.

Straightening up, Dor'ash heard a few joints pop and winced. He was in dire need of a healing spell, but still thought better of casting one of his own. Not in his current state. Somebody else could do him a favor once they got outside the barrier.

But that did remind him of something.

"Sarah," he said, looking around to see her still watching him.

"Yes?"

Knowing what would be next, he even managed to grin.

"Remember that bear, Fuzzik?" he said.

She tilted her head curiously.

"What about him?" she said.

"He's down there, healing people."

In the background, Jonathan chortled while Sarah raised her eyebrows.

"The bear? He's a tauren too?" she said, suspiciously glancing at Jonathan.

"He's a night elf."

Sarah's mouth fell open.

"No," Dor'ash added. "You can't kill him. He's being helpful."

"A goddamn _nelf_?"

He chuckled despite his exhaustion, at the look on her face and her outraged tone – but just as much, he chuckled from relief. She was Sarah again, somebody he could joke with no matter the newly-revealed nasty side of her.

"Serious faces, everyone," Jonathan said, clearing his throat to seize control his own snickering. "I think I've got it…"

Dor'ash coughed, forcing his mind back on the more unsettling facts of the day. The grin faded. Sarah merely changed from disbelieving exasperation to grim exasperation by lowering her eyebrows. Jonathan nodded and faced forward again.

He muttered something, then slapped the barrier in front of him with both hands.

The walls shuddered and then faded away, revealing just about everyone in the entire troop standing on the slope and staring at the temple. The nearest ones lowered hands and weapons – some just inches from Jonathan's face. Apparently they had not stood idle while the barriers were up. Even Fuzzik was there, though a little bit behind everyone else, looking up with worry and confusion.

All three of them certainly made a worrisome sight, and the scorched, drenched inside of the temple did not make things clearer.

"What-?" one of the Forsaken priests, standing by the front, started.

Dor'ash opened his mouth, but Sarah stepped forwards, face set in stone.

"The blood elf witch fired off a trap," she said, fists clenching at her sides. "Master Patrick and Master Lloyd are dead." She motioned at Dor'ash, speaking loud to be heard over the growling from the other Forsaken. "And Master Coldbane needs a healer. We all do."

The Forsaken priest stepped forward, scowling as he looked quickly between Sarah's hard face and the wounds on Dor'ash's arms. The uneasy snarls continued, glances exchanged all through the troop.

"What happened?" the priest asked, warmly glowing hand rising towards one of the rows of circular, bleeding wounds. "What's this, were you stabbed by claws?"

Dor'ash firmly shook his head.

"The Warchief and Lady Sylvanas must hear about this before we can tell anyone else," he said, letting all his fangs show. "I must ask all of you to believe us when we say so."

The growling turned to an agitated murmur, but he silenced them by raising his voice.

"Somebody cut off the elf's head," he said, nodding at Rimtori's unmoving body behind him. "She's more dangerous than any of us anticipated."

It took a moment, but then one of the trolls stepped forwards past Dor'ash and the two mages, drawing his sword with his face set in grim determination. It took a couple of swings, but then three blue fingers lifted the severed head by its blood smeared hair.

"I need somebody to go to Orgrimmar and deliver that to Belgrom," Dor'ash said with a nod.

Hugg stepped forwards, though still looking concerned over the suspicious secrecy.

"I'm wounded, anyway…" the other orc said, studying Dor'ash. He got no clues from that.

"Allow me." Jonathan walked back into the temple and picked up the rune of portals which Lloyd had given him. "She did want to make use of this one." He added the comment while nodding at Rimtori's head, sneering.

Moments later, a shimmering hole opened in the air, displaying the orange and sandy brown colors of Orgrimmar, as opposed to the autumn orange of Azshara. Uncannily reminiscent of the portal Dor'ash had gone through only to lose Sarah – spirits, had that really been on this same day? He felt so tired that he could have fallen down right there, but pulled himself together. The pain in his arms steadily ebbed under the undead priest's spell, at least.

Hugg grabbed the severed head from the troll's hand, and walked through the portal. It closed behind him on Jonathan's soft command, and the rune crumbled to sand in his grip.

That was the end of Magus Rimtori.

Dor'ash looked around at the uncertain, grim faces around him.

"Well?" he said.

Murmuring amongst themselves, the troop moved apart. Many went down to the simple camp (Fuzzik did so quickly after catching the look on Sarah's face), but the priest scurried over to Sarah and Jonathan as soon as Dor'ash's wounds were closed. Some more of the Forsaken joined the three, and they muttered to each other in Gutterspeak. Many times agitated gestures were aimed at the temple and the two heaps of ash, which the wind was doing a good job on even as the Forsaken spoke.

By the tones, one could guess that there were questions asked, but they did not seem to receive satisfying answers. Dor'ash caught Sarah's no-gaze and she nodded. She and Jonathan would deal with this.

Worrying took too much energy. Dor'ash walked down towards the camp, his legs feeling like they were made of lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, I'm sure these spell descriptions don't fit at all anymore. Oh well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. Let's just imagine that things developed since early Burning Crusade in the lore too.


	6. Aftermath

It was about an hour later that a very sheepish-looking tauren approached the camp. By then, the soldiers had regained their organization after the last shock, and the new project amongst those who felt like it was to snoop around the dead blood elves' tents and packs for anything valuable or interesting. The smell of burning flesh had long been blown away by the ocean winds, and nothing remained of the blood elves themselves apart from a big, burnt patch on the ground some ways away from their belongings.

Dor'ash sat on a rock, staring out into space and resting his mind in a blissful state of no thoughts at all. Right then he felt as if a shaman's training in meditation was the most valuable teachings he had ever received.

The sound of two hooves against the ground roused him however, and seeing who it was he stood up with a cold look on his face.

Deran stopped a few, cautious steps away and cleared his throat.

"I very much apologize for the trouble I caused."

"Bah." Dor'ash didn't feel like saying anything else. Even if they had managed to save Sarah, get rid of the treacherous elves, and also killed a couple of turncoat warlocks, he was in no forgiving mood when it came to the idiot tauren.

"Uhm, well…" Deran looked around uncertainly. "I realize it's uncouth to ask a favor, but have you possibly seen Fuzzik anywhere?"

Dor'ash was about to just grunt, but as he looked towards the simple camp he saw no trace of the purple-skinned man.

"He was here just now…"

"Oh, that silly bear," Deran said, scratching his head.

Slowly, Dor'ash blinked twice. To hell with it, he had to know.

"You _do_ know that he's a night elf, I hope?" he flatly said, dreading that the answer would be yet another proof of the world's stupidity.

Deran coughed into his huge hand. Tauren aren't very good at being subtle.

"Of course I do," he said, then winked with one eye. "But _he_ doesn't know that I know. Let's avoid hurting his little elf pride, shall we?"

"Ah."

Dor'ash tried to decide whether to just be relieved or laugh, though the latter would give the stupid calf a sense of having done something right. Right in that moment, however, a familiar-looking bear bounded out from the bushes on the other side of the camp and quickly crossed the space. Since most of the soldiers were busy elsewhere, and not many other even bothered to look up, there was no comment – much to Fuzzik's relief, certainly.

"There you are!"

Deran caught Fuzzik with an arm around his neck and playfully rubbed his knuckles against the furry head until the bear tore himself free with a huge snort. Looking Fuzzik in the eye, Dor'ash caught the please-don't-tell-him-I'm-an-elf expression aimed at him. Using every shred of self control in his body the orc managed to keep from bursting out laughing, and kept a serious look as he gave a small nod.

Despite himself, and all that had happened, Dor'ash felt a little more kindly inclined towards Deran.

With a final apology and bow of his head, the tauren turned and walked off, Fuzzik at his side. Dor'ash watched them go in silence.

He looked to his right when he caught a whiff of dry rot. Jonathan stood a little ways away, gazing after the leaving pair. His sunken face turned towards Dor'ash after a few seconds.

They regarded each other for a while, until the mage shuffled over, pointedly returning his gaze to follow the tauren and "bear" again.

"People will tell people that you let a spy walk away," Jonathan said as he stopped. By then the odd pair were just disappearing behind a distant hill.

Letting out a sigh, Dor'ash shook his head. It was true, he would have to explain himself more than once and face the consequences. But…

"I couldn't, heh, bear killing him," he said, and Jonathan snorted. "He was of great help."

They fell silent, but the air metaphorically crackled with an unasked question. Jonathan's fingers actually drummed against his staff, clattering on the metal. A sign of unease that was definitely rare for an undead.

Dor'ash looked around to make sure Sarah was out of earshot. He caught sight of her reclining against a tree by the slope, working her way through a loaf of bread.

"An elf disguised as a pet bear," he finally said, his thoughtfulness so fake that it could have turned into a bat and flapped away.

Jonathan actually had enough decency to look guilty.

"Ah," he said in a low voice, touching his own chest. "You saw that when the bitch almost ripped me out, eh?"

"And when were you planning on telling Sarah?" Dor'ash asked, smirk threatening to split his face.

"The day I feel the need to get burned alive and buried in sixteen different places." Jonathan, utterly needlessly, cleared his throat. After a moment under the shaman's amused gaze, he shook his head. One bony hand rose up and touched the torn remains of an ear. His other ear wasn't in any better condition. "I think something bit them off before I got killed. Or they rotted and fell off, I don't know. What does it matter? We're Forsaken now. She doesn't need to know. Please?"

He might have been sweating, had he still been alive, as he peered up at Dor'ash. The orc nearly burst out laughing, again.

"You're ridiculous," Dor'ash said after a moment of composing himself. "All kinds of you."

"My girlfriend turns people she doesn't like into sheep and feeds them to their own demons," Jonathan pointed out. "And she really, really doesn't like elves."

"True."

"So you won't tell her?"

"Of course not." Dor'ash watched with much amusement as Jonathan let out a sigh of relief.

"I honestly didn't know when I first met her," the skeletal man said, shaking his head. "It didn't come back to me until I went to Silvermoon." He pulled a face. "Never going there again."

Another thought struck, and the orc just had to ask.

"What's your real name?"

"Medivh on a gnome walker, Dor'ash! Don't do this to me." A loud, disgusted sound and a slap at the air followed this groan, and the shaman laughed.

A moment passed, and Jonathan leaned on his staff. Finally he shrugged.

"Fine," he said. "I couldn't remember a thing at first, so I played around with some names and words until I got something that sounded alright."

"Schiller?"

"Chilly."

Dor'ash bit his knuckles to keep from laughing again. He saw from the corner of his eye how Sarah had stopped eating and looked in their direction. Best think of some lie to tell her about this conversation.

Leaning a little closer, Jonathan hissed:

"I swear that if you ever tell anyone I'll rip out your eyeballs and stuff them down your throat. Galahandar Dawngreeter."

A thin trickle of blood seeped down Dor'ash's hand from where he bit down on his knuckles.

'-'

As night fell, campfires were lit around the newly fortified camp.

Forsaken silently patrolled the outskirts of the site, but just to be sure Dor'ash had ordered his living allies to take turns sleeping. He felt paranoid about letting only Forsaken stand guard, but hoped that they would not draw conclusions from it. Probably not. Generally, even with guards people knew better than to not be alert in the middle of hostile territory.

Dor'ash himself sat hunched by one of the fires, blinking to fight the exhaust. Though his wounds were long healed, his entire body screamed for rest. But it also screamed for food, which was why he was struggling to stay awake at least long enough to finish the bowl of watery stew.

Sarah and Jonathan sat a little to the side of him, curled up together in silence. Normally, seeing them together was unsettling, mainly because you never knew when they would start with their very disturbing flirting. They had been silent for quite a while, though, satisfied with his arm around her and she leaning against him. Cozy, except for the smell and the cruel, if relaxed, features. Dor'ash could never decide if Jonathan's glowing eyes or Sarah's empty eye sockets were more unsettling. Probably the latter, since she normally covered them.

Dor'ash tried not to think too much. Eat. Sleep. Think tomorrow. Oh, he would just love giving this report to the Warchief. Ugh. Only the securing of the area, to make sure all elves were gone, held him back from that meeting.

Sarah shifted.

"That's right…" she murmured, then turned to Jonathan and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thanks for helping me back there, sweetheart."

He grinned and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze, with a dry clatter of bones.

"If I didn't help, what kind of boyfriend would I be?" he said.

Dor'ash felt eternally grateful to Sarah for answering that question in murmuring Gutterspeak, which the orc didn't understand. Her tone told him enough, as did Jonathan's low cackle and the sound of the rest of their low, gurgled conversation.

He was too tired to think that they might just be pretending, with misleading tones of voices.

" _Can we tell the Dark Lady about this? That we killed two of the Society?"_

" _They were only talking about the dreadlord. She must know."_ This was where Jonathan cackled, but he was in no way amused. _"If the Legion can find a way to make us Scourge again…"_ He trailed off, and if he had still retained such inclinations he would have shuddered.

" _I felt no demonic energies when the belf worked on me, although she definitely did dabble in those arts,"_ Sarah said, pressing her forehead to Jonathan's shoulder briefly to hide her expression. _"Could be that she sought something to offer the Legion in exchange for power. What of the dreadlord?"_

On a silent agreement, the same that had made them take to Gutterspeak, they spoke no names – then Dor'ash may have noticed something suspicious.

" _Should he get hold of a spell like this, he would have a dangerous advantage if he truly plans on betraying the Dark Lady some day."_ Jonathan dipped his face into a hand, feigning amusement – he could not bring himself to shape his face into a false grin. _"And he would force us all to follow him."_

" _But if she questions him, it won't be difficult for him to find out about the kills here."_ Sarah's lips twisted into a sweet smile in front of tightly clenched teeth. _"Being turned to Scourge again would be the least thing for us to worry about. Disregarding that, we can't explain to her about eliminating two warlocks and a newly converted belf in order to save an orc."_

" _Unless we claim they voiced absolute faith in the dreadlord and didn't take kindly to us raising a question."_

Sarah relaxed just the slightest bit.

" _That could work."_ She straightened up a little. _"You're right. The Lady must hear of this. We will have to take the risk of the dreadlord finding out."_

" _Indeed."_ Jonathan fell silent for a moment, then slowly raised a patch of skin that had once been an eyebrow. Reaching out, he placed two fingers under Sarah's chin and turned her face towards his. _"Wait a minute, saving an orc? I thought we were killing a couple of warlocks who wanted to let that blasted belf witch get away with what she had done to us."_

" _Of course we were, and getting rid of my asshole of a brother too. Saving my pet was just a bonus."_

" _Right…"_

Sarah scowled at him, momentarily forgetting that they were pretending to be lovey-dovey.

" _Did my orc know he was my brother?"_ she asked.

" _No,"_ Jonathan said, a little surprised. _"Your brother ordered us to call him something else than his real name, he wished not to be noticed."_

" _Good. You won't tell the shaman the truth now, either. You know how rabid orcs are about their family. I don't want him to know that I killed my own brother."_

Jonathan watched her for a moment, then smirked.

" _So you're worried that the orc we certainly didn't risk our souls to save would get angry at you-"_

At Sarah's shriek and the sound of wrestling – with clattering bones – Dor'ash sharply looked around. Then he just tiredly rolled his eyes.

"For the love of the spirits, would you leave that for later?" he grumbled and turned back to his meal, with no real understanding of why Sarah had shoved Jonathan to the ground and tried to rip off even more of his lips.

'-'

It wasn't until the next day that Dor'ash got a chance to speak with Sarah alone. Jonathan hovered around her all the time, until she told him to take his stalking mother hen worry and stick it somewhere painful.

Perhaps Dor'ash could have voiced his concerns even with Jonathan present, but deep down he understood that this was something he had to ask her about in private. Her strange behavior went beyond anything he had seen before, and it not so much disturbed him as honestly worried him.

She was walking somewhere, a little ways away from the camp, when he walked forwards to intercept her.

"Sarah?"

"Mh?"

Stopping, she turned an expressionless face towards him. Too expressionless. Had she been waiting for this?

Dor'ash watched her very closely as he let hear what had been bothering him for quite a while.

"The way Patrick spoke to you in the temple… " and her fingers twitched, although her face didn't move, "… you knew each other, didn't you?"

Her answer was not too quick, but it sounded stilted, as if she had rehearsed the phrase inside her head.

"He was a reputable researcher within the Apothecary Society. We had some business in the past." The remains of her eyebrows sunk towards the leather straps covering her eyes, as he kept watching her. Finally she added, in a terse voice, "What?"

True that there had not been many words exchanged between the two Forsaken. Yet, the things Patrick had said, the possessive way he gripped Sarah, and her morbid glee at his death… she wasn't telling the truth, not all of it by far.

_What did he do to you?_

Judging the age of an undead often seemed neigh impossible, unless they were freshly dead. Their decay caused wrinkles and folds in sagging skin, flesh sunk inwards and hair faded to grayish or oddly colored wisps to remove any sign of youth. They all looked old.

How many years had Sarah seen when she died? In Dor'ash's eyes she would always be small and reedy, but she looked no shorter than the average Forsaken or human woman. A young adult? Or older? True that he had seen her soul trapped inside that orb, and it had shown her as a young woman – but he could not tell if that had been an accurate image.

Dor'ash shook his head and shrugged.

"Very well, if you say so," he said, although it left a bad taste in his mouth. There was something very important here, the nervous whisper of the spirits told him so. He didn't feel comfortable faced with secrets, especially not from somebody he regarded as a close friend. But he couldn't force her to talk. Friendship goes two ways.

"That I do," she said and started to walk away.

Letting out a sigh, Dor'ash watched her go. After a moment he turned and opened one of his travel bags to check on his supplies, just to get his mind off its unsettling course.

The faint smell of death grew stronger again, and her soft steps crunched the drying grass beneath her feet. He straightened up and turned around to face her once more.

Her expression was unreadable.

"Fine," she said. "Patrick knew me when we were alive. He would have just loved to tell me all about it, too, but I wouldn't let him."

He watched her for a moment, wondering if she had ever been in a position to tell Patrick anything.

"It just sounded odd, the things he said," Dor'ash finally said. "And I've never seen you look so happy causing somebody's death."

A sardonic half-smile tugged at Sarah's lips.

"I really wanted him to shut up, for the longest time," she said, then stepped closer and rapped her knuckles against the leather armor covering Dor'ash's chest, smirking. "Besides, he was messing with my pet."

"Heh." Dor'ash chuckled, her familiar, jocular tone pushing him to relax a little. "Yes, thanks for the save back there."

"Eh. I just figured that saving you right there would be less messy than running to the Warchief, yelling 'they've got one of your shamans in the Undercity dungeons' at the top of my voice. I wouldn't want to ruin this beautiful alliance between the Forsaken and the Horde, just for your sake."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You would have played tattletale, though?" he wondered.

"Oh, bah." She tilted her head against his chest, looking up at him in that mock-coquette way she sometimes adopted. "Let's just say I would have seriously considered it."

With that, she gave him a smirk and then walked off again. He watched her as she strode away.

_You have a living brother who mourns you._

But no, he would not tell her that. Not even when he felt like a thief hiding something from the past, which rightfully should have been hers. Yet, if she never knew that she once had something like that…

Was it better to not know the past, really? To not be sure, and always wonder?

He still didn't know what to make of Patrick's actions and words, but he could brave a guess. Then, Sarah probably did the same, if she had not lied. Maybe she did know for sure, and just didn't want to share.

Sarah crouched a little while walking, due to that bad spine she insisted on blaming on an unwise question and the Warchief. Crouched, but walked with determination and confidence.

_And then, what have you forgotten aside from your brother Simon? Were you old enough to be married?_

He couldn't know, but it seemed like the most probable truth.


	7. Epilogue: Downwards spiral

"Ah, Nebula."

The crouching figure leaned on his walking staff, illuminated from behind by the gas burners below vials and bottles of bubbling liquid. In the background, machines continued to buzz. Chains continued to creak, weighed down with huge, decaying body parts for new abominations. Thin shadows slunk across the large room on their own businesses, and discussions were held in low voices.

"Master Faranell," Sarah said, bowing her head in greeting.

He shifted slightly.

"The news reached us quickly," he said, studying her face. "Your brother's death must have been a heavy blow."

"Yes." Her hands curled into fists. Behind her, Jonathan stepped a little closer as if to offer silent support.

The master apothecary slowly nodded.

"It was a blow to the Society as well, of course," he said. "We will recover, but both Patrick and Lloyd were deeply involved in our work."

Around them, some of the conversations stilled when people caught the names and realized just what this was about.

"I know that," Sarah said. "Both Jonathan-" the other mage grimly nodded, "- and I regret that we couldn't stop Magus Rimtori."

"I don't suppose you could tell me what happened, even in private?" Faranell said, motioning at the open room and the apothecaries who didn't even try to hide that they were listening.

Sarah pursed her mouth. Both she and Jonathan shook their heads.

"You must believe me, Master Faranell," Sarah said, lowering her voice, "what happened was something so shocking, that Lady Sylvanas must decide whether it can be known to all."

He gave her a long, hard look.

"This elf…" he finally said, "is it true that she found a way to imprison your soul and control your body like a puppet?"

"Yes." Sarah placed a tone of finality, but also honest dread in that single word. Dor'ash had told her that the other Forsaken in Azshara had actually sounded frightened at the sight of her animated body, and Rimtori's attempt to draw more souls. She knew from experience that they had ample reason to have been afraid.

Being undead had its uses – she would never sleep, and therefore never have nightmares about being trapped in that glass ball. Neither of the things that happened before that.

Some of the listeners nervously growled, and Faranell nodded. He, and they, would read into that answer and draw their own conclusions about what the elf had done, and why Patrick and Lloyd were dead.

"Master Faranell," Jonathan said in a low voice, stepping closer, "I must confess my guilt to you and all the higher apothecaries. When I learned that Sarah had been taken captive, I sought Master Patrick out for help. I hoped only that he would gather soldiers to our aid, and I never dreamed that he would chose to take part in the fighting himself." He bowed his head. "Not only did I fail to defend him against the elf's trap, it was my fault that he was there in the first place."

"Who could've known-"

Sarah stopped herself and touched his arm, shaking her head.

"No, that's true," Faranell agreed, grimly but not unkindly. "We all knew what he was capable of." He turned to Sarah again. "My condolences, and those of the other higher apothecaries as well. I know how loyal you were to your brother."

" _Yes, Sarah, I know you don't want to hear about our lives, but you're going to hear me out about this one thing." He smiles. Forsaken aren't known to do that often, but he seems to do it all the time.  
_

"I owed him a great deal," she said, bowing her head to hide her expression. "I could never repay my debt to him."

"He forgave you, didn't he?" Faranell said.

"He said so," she replied, head still bowed, "but I always felt as if he never truly could, even after all he did for me after he found me awakened. I tried-" she paused and gnashed her teeth audibly, then snarled, bitterly, "and now this!"

" _So that you know where you and I stand with each other." She recalls seeing him smile like that when he watched the twitching rat in the cage. Only now, his lips stretch wider. She wants to tell him to shut up, but she knows that she would regret it. He is not in the mood to be told what to do, not this time.  
_

"A loss for all of us, indeed," Faranell agreed.

"How great is the damage of this loss, Sir?" Jonathan asked. "They did have assistants that can take over their work, I hope?"

"Yes, do not worry about that." The master apothecary looked at Sarah, who had straightened up a little bit. "It would have been suitable to have you pick up Patrick's legacy, but I'm afraid your skills simply don't support such a promotion in the Society."

Sarah shook her head.

"No, Master Faranell," she said, "I full well know that I could never measure up to Patrick's talent. I'll continue to work in the field."

" _You were the smallest and the weakest of all of us. So when the plague came, you were the one who died first."_

"Is there any poison that needs immediate testing?" she added as an afterthought, jaw clenched.

Faranell snorted, but as he did so he nodded understanding.

"I do believe we may have something," he said. "Come back here after you have spoken with Lady Sylvanas and I'll have the vials prepared for transport."

"Thank you, Sir."

" _And because of that, you were the first one to rise up again. I was sick too, by then, but…"_

Sarah took a step back and bowed her head.

"We must report to Lady Sylvanas, so we better go," she said.

"Of course. I'll be waiting."

Waving them off, though politely, Faranell turned back to his experiments. Sarah and Jonathan turned too, walking towards the stairs and up the steps leading out of the research lab. Some glowing, yellow gazes followed them for a little while, but then the apothecaries all returned to their duties.

When they were out, and walking along the bubbling green slime filling the canals of the Undercity, Jonathan touched Sarah's shoulder. They exchanged glances, didn't dare to snicker or smile in relief in case somebody watched, but the understanding was there.

Phew.

They walked for a few more steps, and Jonathan's hand slipped away, before he spoke.

"Does your orc even know that you're in the Society?"

"No." She shook her head, pursing her mouth. "There are many things it's best he doesn't know about."

" _You killed me, Sarah."_

Jonathan nodded slowly. A lumbering abomination passed them, each step underlined with the splat and slurp of moving, exposed intestines. It matched the lazy bubbling of the slime.

"You're coddling him," Jonathan commented.

"What he doesn't know won't make him think unpleasant things about me," Sarah said, daring a disdainful sneer.

" _You owe me. Don't you agree, little sister?"_

The other mage snorted, half smirking too. Sarah might or might not believe that he was actually fooled by her talking like that about Dor'ash.

He never was.

_And Patrick falls silent, and he smiles still._

* * *

A steady stream of messengers always waited for audience outside of the Royal Quarters. There were people of all the Horde's races, though, of course, mostly Forsaken. Blood elves came second in numbers. It made Sarah's fingers twitch.

The small, Forsaken cleric Jonathan and Sarah spoke with did not move a muscle when they explained that they needed to speak with Lady Sylvanas alone. At their insistence, he finally conceded to pass this wish on to the Banshee Queen, and she would decide whether or not it would be granted.

They could only hope.

After they returned from the Apothecarium, the mages waited for nearly two hours before they were admitted to see Lady Sylvanas. A small group of guards silently brought the couple through the large, circular room where the queen and Varimathras usually resided, and through a small door hidden behind one of the dark curtains on the wall.

The fact that Varimathras wasn't in the audience hall either did not feel very reassuring, as the question then was where exactly he had gone.

A short corridor on the other side of the door led to another, smaller room. In a way, it was not much different from the audience hall save the size – circular and similarly designed. Lady Sylvanas stood in the center of it, on a round stone podium. Her bow and quiver of arrows hung over her back, always ready for a battle.

Cruel, red eyes gazed down from below her hood, as Jonathan and Sarah kneeled down at the edge of the podium, bowing their heads towards the floor.

"For your sake, this better be important," the Dark Lady said. "I do not usually meet with just anybody in here."

"I swear, my Queen," Jonathan said, and Sarah murmured agreement. "We would never make such an audacious request unless it was important."

"Hmm."

The sound of feet clacking against the floor, leaving, and then the door closing announced that the guards left.

"Now," Sylvanas said, as cold as before, "what is this crucial report you have to give me in private?"

Sarah began the story, as she had been involved from the very beginning. Only as they reached the gathering of troops and battle in Azshara did Jonathan take over, then the two of them interchanged as suited the report.

They twisted the truth as they had planned together – in this version, Patrick's doomguard also attacked Jonathan, as he was not of the Society and when Sarah questioned this, she was branded a traitor of Varimathras' cause. From there they only defended themselves.

Sylvanas said nothing, and for a moment after Sarah finally ended the story there was silence. The two mages still had not looked up. They could not gauge any reaction from the look on the Lady's face.

Finally she spoke, voice expressionless.

"And this orc, who is he?"

"Dor'ash Coldbane is a shaman of the Frostwolf clan, my Queen," Sarah said. "He is in Orgrimmar now, reporting this to the Warchief. Forgive us, there was no way to stop him from going there, not without notice."

Jonathan nodded, silent.

"That," Sylvanas said, voice low and dangerous, "will put a strain on our alliance with the orcs."

"Forgive us, Dark Lady," Jonathan echoed Sarah. "For what it is worth, Coldbane seemed to accept the truth that those warlocks were only interested in Varimathras' favor."

"Even so, it will give the Warchief reason to doubt our loyalty to the Horde," Sylvanas said. "Thrall can be reasoned with. However, if this Coldbane spreads this story amongst our allies, it will become a problem."

It was useless to claim that Dor'ash wasn't one to gossip.

Sarah's blackened tongue wet her cold lips. Technically needless, a nervous habit she couldn't remember from life. As she spoke again, she bowed her head even lower.

"My Queen, if I may be so bold… if you wish for Coldbane to be silenced, please allow me to handle it."

Silence.

None of them needed to breathe, and nobody moved.

"Why should I grant this request?" Sylvanas finally asked. There were no feelings to be read in her voice, not even curiosity.

Sarah still did not move.

"Coldbane has been of great use to me in my travels," she said. "For that, should you desire his passing, I wish to grant him the mercy of a quick death."

"If he is a shaman, do you honestly believe that you could deal with him alone?"

"He is fool enough to sleep in my presence." Sarah's hard fingertips scratched softly against the cold stone floor, only the whisper of a sound. "The spirits may warn him, but if in enemy territory I should have no problem poisoning him."

"But he must have many friends in the Horde who knows that he travels with a Forsaken," Sylvanas said. "You may come under suspicion if he disappears, and thus, since he has already shared the tale of what happened in Azshara, so would we all. It would only make the situation worse."

Hesitance? Not in her voice. No. Planning for silence. How to go about it.

"I have travelled into dangerous territory with him before, my Queen," Sarah said. She had not rehearsed saying any of this, but she had always known what to say when the need came. "If we went into the Plaguelands, or Tanaris, or even Outland or any such region, nobody would think twice if neither of us were ever seen again by any orc, troll or tauren."

"Not the Plaguelands," Sylvanas said. "That is too close to our territory, it would seem suspicious."

"Yes, my Queen," Sarah said, still as a statue.

Silence settled over the dark room once again. The two kneeling figures waited for their undead elf queen to make her decision, and they could have waited for days if need be.

Finally, Sylvanas spoke again.

"You have done well to report this possible betrayal to me. Varimathras shall not know of it."

"Thank you, my Queen."

Jonathan and Sarah spoke in near union.

"As for the orc, the damage is already done with his report to the Warchief," Sylvanas said. "If he died now, even under likely circumstances, it would be a cause of distrust we cannot afford for the time being."

Bony fingertips stroke the floor. Twitchy, tiny motions. Despite the distance, the Banshee Queen might still have seen it.

"Rather than silencing him right away, it would be wise to keep him alive for a while," Sylvanas continued. "But you will deal with him the moment I say so."

"On your word, my Queen," Sarah said, voice as steady as ever. "I will not fail you."

"Very well. You may both go."

"Thank you, Dark Lady."

Though neither one of them would admit it, leaving the Royal Quarter felt like walking out of a prison. Still no sight of Varimathras either – later they would learn that he had been out, spying and stretching his wings. At least, that was his usual excuse. No one could say if it was true or if he had other plans.

With much lighter steps than when they had walked towards the audience chambers, Sarah and Jonathan headed away, and onwards to the Trading Quarter and a tavern. Alcohol might not do much for them, but some things simply demand a drink.

The relief lasted, but as they sat down and drank in silence, it began to stretch and thin.

Sarah didn't see how Jonathan watched her over the brim of his mug.

"Copper for your thoughts," he said after a moment. When she glanced up, he had organized his face to look perfectly calm.

Shrugging, Sarah held out her hand to demand payment. He reached into a pocket and then dropped a small, brown coin in her palm, smirk on the remains of his lips.

"Just trying not to lay up a strategy," Sarah said once she had added the copper to her bag of money. "I don't understand exactly how the spirits work, but I better not give them a chance to read my mind."

"They would be wise to stay far away from that, methinks," Jonathan said.

"Heh!"

Their mugs clashed, and they drank to Jonathan's wisdom. It was the last time they ever spoke of that business. Sarah never did realize – perhaps due to wishful thinking, or awareness of how all her fellow Forsaken normally viewed life – that Jonathan knew. Always knew. Yet he remained silent about it, never commented, never tried to talk "sense" with her.

There are simply things which a man has to realize he has no business meddling with.

Sarah relaxed after the toast, and soon they were trading nasty jokes.

Her mind, however, burned with the exact knowledge of the tactic she would use to deal with Dor'ash, the day her queen ordered her to.

Knowing that oaf, she may very well have to fight him while telling him what he needed to know. Otherwise, he might not get anything done like he should. But it should not be too much of a problem to give him space enough to smash her to bits after learning that he had to go into hiding from the Forsaken. The most important thing would be to make sure no spying extra assassin trailed them when the time came.

_You can't do that. He'll never slink away and be safe, he'll make it to Orgrimmar and you will have betrayed your people._

_I will tell him to burn my remains. I will be gone forever. It won't matter then._

_And I really don't like_ any _elves._

Sarah laughed at one of Jonathan's jokes, one dipping dangerously into the not work safe territory, and shoved him off his chair when he started to dig the story even deeper. Cackling, he climbed back up and waved at the ghastly bartender for another drink.

Watching his back, Sarah let her smirk drop for a moment.

She had already decided, long ago, that she wanted Dor'ash to save her from the Lich King the day she began to fade out of her own control again. The final result was the same.

_I won't die forsaken._

**_The End._ **


End file.
